The path through the park — and by park, we mean sprawling acreage by the river, buried in leaves — is flanked by brambles and cottonwood trees. In sunny places, dandelions and rain-patient bees. In shade, maple leaves seem thousands of hands — a father’s, a mother’s, an aunt’s, all blessing, caressing, the land. Frog-song. Birds in the breeze. A rich-pastel ocean-sky, as much and as blue as you need, as white and as gray, and as each in-between, rich-rose, dawn knows, evening shows, budding at noon, blooming at three. Muskrat-splash. Trees down. Water up. Scum-pond. Lilies gone. Wake out to center. Shimmer of sun. A hush and we’re gone.