The owner, who lives a floor beneath us, spends every weekend moment atop diverse ladders, cutting branches from the ficus trees that enclose our house. As of now, she’s had enough, and this week a crew came and cut every branch off the trees. They’re barren, like winter, except there is no winter here. As they worked—standing in the trees that they were cutting down, swinging live chainsaws one-handed—a fine blanket of sawdust covered our house, and it was kind of like a first snow, but only for us. Susan thought it smelled like new wood, but when I woke up this morning I was overpowered by the smell of sunshine and gasoline. #