The east wind blows cold,
ruffling the hair where it
lays against my ears.
It smells of fir, river, and traffic.
My urban life is a friend
with whom I often argue.
I always question my place in it.
Answers are mostly ambiguous and
invariably lead to more questions.
My embrace of it always
carries the undercurrents of desire.

(Portland, OR: Forest Park–Wikipedia.org; St. John’s Bridge–ninamontenegro.com)