On regenerating.

I tried to take a picture of it—all the little white puffs falling from the tree in a steady, endless stream, like rain. But you know what it’s like: When the moon is beautiful and you want someone to see it and, no matter how hard you try, the photo never comes close.

We taught my son what to call them and he named each one as they wafted by, endlessly, in the breeze. Seed!

Where would another tree even grow? The pollen gathered in fluffy tumbleweeds across the concrete patio, beneath the picnic tables, all across the street. Good thing no one’s allergic, we agreed, taking in the scene.

In the breeze the gathered piles looked like furry little animals, drifts of fallen snow. O. liked chasing them about, sending them scattering. Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!