I live on a block in Seattle that is decidedly more concrete jungle than lush canopy. Which is why it’s weird that, on many days, my alarm is not some medley of Apple chimes but the cacophonous drone of leaf blowers outside.
I have rubbed my eyes and squinted at sidewalks. I have craned my neck to see if there’s some tree I’m missing. I have stared awkwardly into the eyes of a landscaper wearing earplugs, awaiting some explanation for, or at least some acknowledgment of, such a dissonant wakeup call with not a single leaf in sight.
I have yet to find a compelling justification for
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