"I take twilight walks. I go the gutter way, down alleys to visit that old boxwood tree shaped like a woman. She was planted more than a century ago, when my city along this great river was being carved out of an old growth forest. She knew the old ones, heard their screams as they were ripped out and cut down. Now she has garden moles under her feet and robins in her hair. Morning Glory gives her a garland. Her genetic memory is of Olde England but she knows the stories of this land, too. They have fed her and nurtured her. She has taken them in through her roots and leaves with the nutrients in the soil and the water from the rains. The passing of years has made her slow growing wood hard. We have at best, and if I am in a whimsical frame of mind, a nodding acquaintance but I do know her. My people were a transplant to this land as well."