In a despised village, rain continued to pound the streets. Strong winds crashed through the trees, houses, huts, and kites of poor children. A storm seemed to be descending to cheer up the cold rainy season. Among the leaves that were blown away by the wind, the trees densely packed at the bottom of the hill, the smell of mushrooms wafting in the air, one of them was broken by a branch that couldn't stand the wind. It rained continuously, probably until the road was dark without lights.
Under the shade of the swaying trees, the cold air infiltrated, circling the shrubs that grew underneath. A small mushroom clung to its mother,
"Is the storm still long?" He asked his mother.
"Yes," mom replied, "Rain is the bright future for the fabric of our nation's life, child.
"Yes, Mom. Wet rain is a bright future," replied the mushroom boy.
Thanks to all, for entering and providing support for my mushroom post. This is a little picture of life besides humans, they are mushrooms. Always success for you mushroom lovers.
This is my submission for #FungiFriday, which is hosted and curated by 
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