The Lower Macleay Trail, a spur of Forest Park, begins a few hundred feet from my back door, making me feel like John Muir who, in Oakland CA, in 1873, could hop over his back fence into a viable ecosystem.

It is dusk when I tentatively started up the path for the first time, passing under a strangely wrought structure that looks like a suspension bridge built upside down.

Do the Gods
pass over?

              I hear
, and
a bus's roar.


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