Sunlight pours through the second-story window. Pushing the sash up, I kneel before the window and fold my arms against the white-painted sill to peer outside. A slight breeze stirs, carries the perfume of summer fading toward crisp autumn. The scene is familiar – putty-colored sidewalks trundle alongside the grid of intersecting roads; neatly-tended lawns are bound, here and there, by gloss-leafed privet hedges; a scarlet stop sign pins down the corner. But, looking into the yard below, a surprise – a slim tree lifts its branches skyward where no tree has been before. Seemingly overnight, a straight-trunked dogwood has grown, or a cherry, perhaps. It is a glorious sight; more so for the peculiar fruit it bears. Depending from the tree’s arching branches, in an array of bright colors – scarlet, lemon-yellow, orange, cobalt blue, and hyacinth – sprout dozens of reading glasses.