We live on the upper north-eastern slope of Mt. Davidson, the highest point in San Francisco, geographically near the center of the city. Sometime in the 19th century eucalyptus trees were planted on the mountain, non-natives which some group which seems to have great power with city authorities is determined to eradicate. They are messy trees. Their leaves blow into neighboring streets and yards and their branches collect the heavy fogs and douse everything beneath them with ferocious deluges of water nearly year round. But they form a lovely forest filled with memories of joyous walks with our beloved dog Bika over the course of a decade, never to be repeated–in this life, anyway–since she went to her blessed reward last August. I can sit in bed and look up at them swaying in the breeze. Living beings, intricately interconnected with each other, their roots and branches bound in the most intimate communion of companionship and mutual protection in the gale force winds which assault them, they are all slated to die by the decree of the zealots who have masterminded their demise. But they will always live for me. They are part of me too. I like to think I am part of them.