Rumpled bushy clusters of green leaves, one drooped over the other like tags hanging off clothing; and sparse pine needles prickling the sky; and the honest stars of maple leaves with syrup in their phloem. Past the screen of trees lies the road, sighing and morning gray, while distantly a lawnmower cuts up blades of grass. Facing each these hedges and trees are balconies of the condos: gray fading planks. Each gets an eye full of green. White clusters burst atop some of the trees: the crown a bloom of flowers. And the air gray and rainy, tastes of the sea.