Forest Park, Portland Oregon.

By a bench dedicated to "My Dogs, Blossom and Denver," a couple passes me. We exchange greetings, and the man asks, "Where on the East Coast are you from?" "New York," I reply. "Manhattan?" "Brooklyn. But it's been a long time since I've been there." "It never leaves," he laughs.

I try to conjure the oracular spirit of this olden place. A slight breeze riffles the creek. Tall trees that make their way up amongst thousands of other species without what we can see.

At the edge of our consciousness
is what can never be
                   fully known.