On several Sunday afternoons this spring my friend Sam and I have met up at the corner of Market and Sanchez and then set off to wander the City. On this most recent Sunday afternoon we wandered down Fillmore Street toward Pacific Heights, stopping twice along the way, once at a bakery for calories and once at an open house for a third-floor walk-up with gorgeous hardwood floors and closets too narrow for hangers. From there we went east to Russian Hill in search of a small pedestrian lane between Jones and Taylor streets, the setting of the book series I'm reading. We found it, took pictures with our cell phones to prove that we were there and then continued on to North Beach where we we laid on our backs in Washington Square Park to watch the bluest blue sky spread out across forever.
We were gathering our shoes to head home as the afternoon breeze was building to gusts when Sam said "Look." and pointed to the top of the poplar trees above our heads. I looked up to see hundreds of leaves spilling from dozens of branches, each one plummeting through the air in a manic dive, a fleeting flash of green against blue, on its way toward us on the ground. We laid down on our backs again and observed the nature without speaking and I thought about something peaceful that I read once.
The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let the dead things go.