Carol and I were sitting at the table eating breakfast, Carol was telling me about something she was doing down at her office on Fish Island, when something outside the window behind her, moving in the breeze, caught my eye. Look, I said, rudely interrupting her, and pointing out the window. What, she said. The maple tree, it’s got buds, I said; our apartment is on the second floor so we look right into the branches of the Red Maple in the sidewalk across the street. The morning sun lit up the swelling purplish-red buds so that they stood out against the wall of the Whaling Museum, which was still in shadow. Carol turned, and looked. She wasn’t as interested as I was, and she turned back. Red buds on the maple tree, spring is coming, I said. She continued her story. Red buds on the maple tree, I thought happily to myself, listening to her story.