The spring chill lingered, with yellow cottonwood fluff floating through the air.
The French plane trees would burst open when the fruits matured, scattering dark yellow tufts that danced with the wind, swirling like falling snowflakes, or gathering into clusters in some corners.
Shire sat in the command center, sipping coffee and looking out the window at the scenery.
Shire didn't like these plane tree tufts. Though they looked romantic, they were invasive, getting into clothes, eyes, and noses, making them impossible to guard against.
However, the French plane trees were ubiquitous in the streets and alleys of Paris, almost the most common roadside tree. Come May, one inevitably suffered because of them.
Under these circumstances, Shire preferred to stay in the office and read documents.
