John Connolly

John Connolly

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SYNOPSIS It was spring, and color had returned to the world. The distant mountains were transforming, the gray trees now cloaking themselves in new life, their leaves a faded echo of fall's riot. The scarlets of the red maples were dominant, but they were being joined now by the greenish-yellow leaves of the red oaks, the silver of the bigtooth aspens, and the greens of the quaking aspens, the birches, and the beeches. Poplars and willows, elms and hazelnuts were all bursting into full bloom, and the woods were ringing with the noise of returning birds. I could see the woods from the gym at One City Center, the tips of the evergreens still dominating the landscape amid the slowly transforming seasonals. Rain was falling on the streets of Portland, and umbrellas swarmed on the streets below, glistening darkly like the carapaces of squat black beetles.