I am lucky enough to live on a street lined by old cherry blossom trees - the city doesn't plant these anymore, since apparently they grow too laterally and get in the way of trucks and street cleaners. In fact, I've stopped city crews from hacking down branches on more than one occasion (one was especially awkward since I heard them starting up their wood chipper and had to leap out of bed and throw on whatever clothes were on hand and bolt out the door, hair everywhere, to literally beg them to go away. It worked) I also have scrubbed off their white spray painted marks meant to indicate future chopping, and bound a broken branch assaulted by a street cleaner truck passing by until it healed itself...Hey, whatever it takes. What the city and its wood chipping employees don't understand is that I value what the trees offer way more than the street cleaner's ability to hiss down my gutter. I can sweep up street trash, but I can't replace the immense pleasure each and every twig of that tree brings me. 
You see, each spring my street is transformed into a fairy arbor, with ridiculous, almost unbelievable, explosions of the wildest pink you can imagine. Over the course of three days, the whole street is transformed from ho-hum winter branches to intoxicating color. Fluffy cotton-candy balls of flowers literally surround you as you walk out the door. Walking my dog at night, I pass beneath boughs that pulse pink even in the dark. It is magical. Even as the petals fall, the spell continues, as the entire sidewalk is transformed to a soft pink carpet, so much more dazzling than any hollywood red carpet walk could be.
The whole thing only lasts about one week, but it is my favorite week of the entire year.
love k
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