Midnight at Astoria Park in Queens, the hour at which the evening’s only companion is nostalgia—tomorrow can’t be seen yet and the past is still close. Sentimentality so strong that it comes to life and flows down from the wind, skids along the trees, bounces off the park’s basketball rims, seeps into the pores of the asphalt and cascades down into the water of the East River. A roaring boom inspirits the whole park without a human soul in sight. It’s the trees that speak up first.