The conference call goes on for thirty minutes, forty minutes, an hour. I sit behind the desk in my basement office, mostly listening. A nearby window frames what I see of a day that looks colder than it feels.
A stocky Mexican — late teens? early twenties? — strolls past the window. He wears a flannel shirt, old jeans, heavy boots, and a gasoline-powered leaf blower. Seconds later, he cranks it. Work begins.
In a few minutes, a storm of color — browns, reds, oranges — obscures my view. Leaves swirl upward, hundreds of them. They curl in on themselves, fall, and rise again. They scrape and rattle and press against the glass. At the same time, the roar of the blower doubles and triples in volume.
The guy outside passes the window. He sees me on the phone and realizes how his work must sound. He grins and shrugs his shoulders. Through the glass, we make contact — and then, just as quickly, he resumes his work and moves away, lost in the leaves.
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