It’s easy to overlook trees in urban space. I don’t mean saplings—their skinny stalks so often the hallmark of new development and urban renewal projects—but rather big, old trees. Trees that predate the buildings they are flanked by.
Since March, I have spent more time in New York than ever before: forty-five nights, in four bedrooms, in three neighborhoods. Brooklyn, to be precise, waking up on weekdays to ride the train into Greenwich Village. Ideologically resisting the idea of commuting even while overflowing with wonder, breathing in history, my fingers on the pulse of what often feels like America itself.
It is the beginning of September, and July 1st seems like a decade ago.
After a hectic month of travel in May, June was a slow jaunt through my northeast haunts.