From the Editor

Our encounters with people are often tangential and coincidental. Some meetings occur from known connections, and the majority from a labyrinth of underground roots barely visible even to those of us whose job it is to develop these worlds of living memories.

In the Oregon Caves National Monument, a cavern some 50 feet below ground contains the roots of a Douglas fir tree. The roots have the blue hue of oxygenated blood vessels. They have grown to a depth well beyond their customary 10 to 15 feet, weaving their way through the cracks in the surrounding granite rock. They have come to rest in a small cavern, no longer needed by the tree above, which was cut down many years ago. This cavern is a living crypt with its own respiratory system, the evidence of which is felt in entering and exiting through small passageways, when gentle breezes can be felt on exposed skin. The inhaling and exhaling cave has maintained the temperature at 42 degrees for many years now, preserving the tree roots for future generations of cave explorers — maybe the roots, at one time, knew this was a good place to come to rest.

The morning appeared on time, not quite soon enough for my liking, but its predictability lent a certain comfort. As usual it brought with it a sense of something new, a hope and potential. Today could be very different than any of those other days, but the weight of the other days burdens the new morning. The balcony railing is wet; droplets of water huddled together on the underside, trying to fend off the demands of gravity, but eventually they will saturate, pregnant until the surface tension fails them, and they will let go, dropping to the ground.

A flock of birds, startled by some sound, leap off the roof edge, united in their fear, initially falling, as if unprepared for this surprise. Eventually held aloft by the updraft ascending the side of the building, the birds disperse in different directions, seeking safety from that which might threaten them. The morning a