No name

All our trees are sick. I live in the city, and in 20 years, I've only noticed this now, when spring has arrived. The treetops are bare, the buds are just beginning to emerge. It pains me—people are cutting down our park to make way for yet another fork in the road. Instead of poplars that look like candles, a garden with rowan trees, and a sticky, generous linden tree, there will be an overpass. They're also building a detour for the overpass—completely cutting down half a kilometer of road along the railroad tracks. There's a community of the blind there—a place for walks, meetings, and life for the visually impaired.