In the city there are trails of discarded three-dollar umbrellas. They blow into tangles when they meet one another, black nylon (though maybe it’s not nylon, but something even more synthetic, of more recent vintage than the nylon, say, of the Nixon era) and metal spokes like so many Y’s, V’s, and palsied X’s. The trails mark wind patterns down avenues, around corners, eddying in piles along curbs. Umbrellas used to be something you wouldn’t want to lose, not so very easily replaced for pocket change. A common umbrella used to be something that didn’t fold up, that might sport a handle of wood, ivory, Bakelite plastic in a variety of colors and molded finger impressions.