In the midst of much movement, I had two hours to look at plants and trees. This was Tuesday, at the Bronx Botanical Garden, which I'd once passed hundreds of times on the train to Sarah Lawrence. For seven years, that stretch between Grand Central and Bronxvilke seemed to be all about getting to work, which might explain why I'd never been to the Garden. That track was Conduit, with Capital C, so it felt like good to be sent there, to smell wet leaf, woodchip, and lavender; to feel earth beneath my shoes; to be present in space and time, especially at a hectic time. (I think I finally processed all that twenty four hours later, as I wrote this from the plane over Tonopah, Nevada, on the way to San Francisco.) I've been invited by the National Book foundation to write a short text about a portion of the garden--or a particular tree or flower or plant. A part of the text will be posted on a sign beside the plant--indefinitely--including a number to access a recording of the text. Here, a few pictures of the walk I shared with the lovely Emma Straub, who's also writing a piece. An hour later, Camille Rankine joined us, and soon the three of us were bumping around the garden on an electrically undernourished golf cart, wondering what to write, what to write.