Where the old lake used to be, near the coven of maples, felled by high winds and frequent storms, the portal opens as fairy ring. Formed by mushrooms that used to communicate through roots, says the oracle. But warns that we could disappear should we dare to veer inside the circle. All winter the beagle and I dance a ritual around the green circumference, side-stomp the boundary. But spring brings lines that thin to invisible. Now, how gingered and deliberate we tip-toe this liminal space.