In which all the trees of the night will clap their hands.

One night last week I was walking home on my usual route from the S-Bahn and had almost reached the luminous construction vortex when I was about knocked over by its gatekeeper -- a giant old tree that has probably been on this planet far longer than I have. Unlike most of its nekkid neighbors, its branches were still fully decked out in their summer attire. What struck me as different, however, was how very, very, inyerface-goldeny-orange the whole thing was, aided by the reddish glow of the bank across the street. By this point I'd already gone from the gleeful slurping up of autumnal colors to the quiet anticipation of winter that comes in gray November. This delayed magnificence took no mercy. It reminded me of the rose in Le petit prince, which took forever perfecting her plumage and bloomage before emerging one day in the full splendor of the sunrise. This tree also took its time, carefully selecting its colors and waiting for the rest of the leaves on the street to fall before the grand slam BAM! HERE I AM! At that point I only had my baby Nikon on me, which produced this proud impression:

 

Blurred or not, I am much more partial to its whimsy than the lack thereof in the photo I took with The Big Guns a few nights later.

 

Beziehungsweise:

 

 

Now back to that quiet anticipation.