THE EDITOR’S LETTER
There’s a tree outside my bedroom window. I don’t know what kind of tree it is. To be honest, in spring and summer, when I assume it is verdantly clothed, I’ve not noticed it. But now that winter is here, and it is entirely bare, undressed, with its leaves about its ankles, it has become peculiarly transfixing. Look at it on slight, grubby February days and it’s a normal, perfectly average kind of tree, with a trunk the hue of old chewing gum and hands and fingers that slowly taper out to a gentle kind of nothing. But, sometimes, the sunrise will catch it—sometimes the sunset—and something rather extraordinary happens. It’s as if the tree reveals its true nature. The colors of its various parts are so resplendent, so rich,…