It’s not in open fields or in large gardens that I see spring arrive. It’s in the several scrawny trees of a small city square. There the greenness stands out like a special gift and is joyful like a warm sorrow. I love these lonely squares, tucked between streets with little traffic, and themselves with just as little. They are useless clearings, always there waiting, in between forgotten tumults. They’re a bit of village in the city.
