"Rite of Faerie Age" by Rochelle Leya Watts

She skipped up the hill
Same as every year
On the dawn of the day of her birth

And on top of the hill
Like a red and white speckled crown
The ring of mushrooms stood
One for every member of her family
After all they were mushroom farmers
The best in the village
And her dad knew all the secrets
Of making them grow tall and round
And next to the one that was hers
She stood
With its cap well over her head
With a sigh she fluttered her wings

She trudged up the hill
Same as every year
On the dawn of the day of her birth

To the beautiful mushroom ring
With deep crimson
And creamy ivory spots
Each one a cousin or brother or grandparent
And some in the back
The ancient and thick trunks
That would only wither when those
That they were planted for were gone
But she knew she was no taller this year
And next to hers, she was still shaded from the sun

She tiptoed up the hill
Same as every year
On the dawn of the day of her birth

She thought this might be the year
She even tried eating extra helpings
Of mushroom soup
Of course not made from the giants
That round the hill stood guard
Past the smaller ones
For new ones born this year
But as she stood next to hers
Still the top of her head
Only touched the bottom of its cap

She sauntered up the hill
Same as every year
On the dawn of the day of her birth

She had snuck up here last night
While all her family were at dinner
And she knew that there was no doubt
All the fungus seemed to be smaller
She could see across most of the tops
To the center of the ring
That was thicker with only a few gone
With both feet planted firmly on the ground
She looked over the top of her mushroom
With a flick of her wings
She went back home to become an adult