'70 trees,' he said, standing in the narrow lane of grass between the street and the sidewalk. 'We've planted 70 trees around this neighborhood.' Pyramids of dark crumbly earth rested near holes for the next two trees, tall skinny specimans with balled roots, waiting to be tucked into their new homes. He swung his arm toward the streets west of San Pablo and north of Russell to show me the range of their efforts.

Then there was the man with dark hair and beard. I think he was wearing office clothes, flying down Alcatraz and around the corner onto Shattuck, a joyful fleeting apparition. I can hear the descending whirring of the wheels of his skateboard against the asphalt, see the graceful arc of his turn.

And the woman with the dark shining hair, reading her book at the park picnic table, giving precise and accurate directions to the nearest library, her voice gentle and certain.

And the trio unloading their cases of eggs, bottles of juice, boxes of leafy vegetables for the small neighborhood farmers market.

These are my neighbors.