The lands of the Tualatin mountain range have a dream-like quality, the trails wind and test memories. This is how I envisioned the way to the meadows- as a place where the roofs have baskets and the truck coasts slowly down the hill. The last pages of the book read: Perhaps, goods made outside a factory makes it hard to count a total summary of production which serves only as a statistic to say Cargill can feed the world, but there can be a small economy that grounds itself along trade routes and weaves through business and recreational corridors. I can spend my morning biking to the beautiful vacant corner shop where lists with different handwriting fill the spaces between lines drawn as flowers on the wall that flow through and between the neighborhoods. I can tie my hair up and walk to the back, wash my hands and wrists, go to a small mixing station and prepare a batch of forty muffins. I place my tray next to rising tortillas and set my timer, I walk through the back door to the alleyway and courtyard where I can perch to roll and I catch up with someone I haven’t met yet. I still have enough time to walk through the rest of the alley and check out the other shops’ back rooms. I learn about the hundreds of year old trees in the tea mountains of Guizhou. I walk straight back to the kitchen and watch the last two minutes of the muffins rising. I place my muffins next to the breakfast burritos and sign out of the kitchen. I ride past the balconies of loved ones waking up to a warm drink, the stoops below filled with young gatherings of pigment, clay, and wood, right next to the storefronts that celebrate a family’s work. Then I reach the nice homes where it gets steep. There is one house per fifty to hundred feet and right now one and three use their seperate garage on the street to let me store my collections. I can wave to them from their balconies set back up on the hill. There are so many colors and I can see the city and the metal horse carrying a huge basket across the river. A door into the cold stream. The pedals turn bright and starry underneath the shade of the berries and there is dappled light shining on the backs of fur. The top is approached like a nest and I see everybody in the flowery and mossy meadow combining ingredients from all sides of the mountain. Work cannot be shared