My dusky evening run has become a dark night run, and alas, it will stay that way for the next six or seven months. The darkness slows you down, especially on the Irvington sidewalks, where old tree roots push the concrete around and the occasional fallen branch or stray rock can make the footing treacherous.

Tonight was my last official run of the summer along the East Bank Esplanade on the Willamette River. At 9 p.m. on a Sunday, it was deserted. There were about a half dozen stragglers up at the north end near the Steel Bridge, but after them there wasn't another soul but me all the way down to the arch under the Morrison.

I love solitary urban runs. I'll never forget one particular evening jog I took in San Francisco during my six months living there. It was the last night of a holiday weekend -- Easter Sunday night, maybe, or Memorial Day night -- and I headed down the hill to Fisherman's Wharf. Normally teeming with tourists, on that evening it was stunningly empty. The shops were closed, and there wasn't anyone else around. Just for that few minutes, it belonged all to me.

I've had many such moments in my 25 years as an Oregon resident, but you don't find yourself in that position too often in Portland any more. Tonight it felt great.

One thing that comes with living in a place for this long a time: After a while, the physical landmarks of the city fade into the background, and even its institutions blur a bit. What comes into ever sharper focus are the people who live in the place, and the way they live their lives. That's definitely where I'm at as another equinox approaches.