At the end of the block ahead of me, I see a tall elderly gentleman holding a green garden hose and directing the spray around the base of an ancient tree on the other side of the sidewalk from his house.
As I get closer, I call cheerily: "Are you giving the plane trees a chance?"
He pauses, and seems to turn in slow motion. "The trees all down this street are stressed."
"I know. There have been pieces of bark dropping in chunks for months."
He shrugs. It seems to take an age.
"Since I'm out here, it's something I can do..."
On my way back from the coffeehouse, a young woman brushes by me. She's wearing a tan like something she has slipped over her head before donning her carefully coordinated clothes. She probably started to dress about the same time the old fellow started his spraying.
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