On Nov. 22, two days before US Thanksgiving, the leaves in
the ginkgo trees glow like fire. In the Brooklyn morning, when M and I walk T,
our hound dog, the blinding sun of pre-winter morning sparks the flames.
Non-ginkgo leaves are down, or speckled in and out of shadow. Like they’ve been
gutted in the ginkgo inferno.
It will not always be like this. Ginkgo trees afire, not a
single leaf having fluttered to the ground, will soon face the equivalent of the
fire hose. A blustery wind that in a hour – perhaps even less – will sweep
into our heroes and send them all – in bunches, or ones, twos, threes, into a whirligig
dance, pinwheeling on different courses, not one like the other. Literally
impossible for the human eye to track their darting and swimming and flatlining journey.
That is why I count it as luck, an omen of delight, when I’m
running in Prospect Park and the magical leaves of one of these trees is finally aloft, and somehow miraculously lands and is caught in my outstretched hand.
So far, I’ve caught one leaf like that this season. A wee
yellow elm (or poplar? or beech?). But the ginkgos? They are still aflame. But
soon, soon, in the next big wind, I’ll be out there, bracing for the tree-gift
catch of my life.
Next: Running for Your Life: Holiday Reading List
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