The morning sun these days rises at a lower angle, so that the shadows are longer and seem to flicker, as if the neighborhood is now underwater.
The flower shop, which is by far the best thing to happen commercially in the ten-plus years that I’ve lived here, has pumpkins on display.
And even a few pots of mums, which almost appear to be floating in the phantasmagoric sunlight.
The block is blissfully quiet in the mornings. I offer my best wishes to the matching trees that were planted last year and for some reason have struggled this season. One week last spring they were leafing out beautifully, and the next they appeared to be largely dead. We’ll see if they can make it through the winter. (A statement that could be said to apply to all of us, perhaps!)
Further up the block, another new tree seems to be doing better.
The thick wrought-iron gates of a run-down apartment building are older than anyone with a beating heart in Washington Heights; but they, too, are beginning to show their age.
The birch tree leans away from the building, its leaves whispering secrets in a language I would like to understand.
