Ailanthus

Ailanthus grows where he is not wanted, which is everywhere. The tree-of-heaven — "a tree grows in Brooklyn," the novel said, and meant him — cracks sidewalks, colonizes vacant lots, outgrows the chainsaws sent to stop him. The cities curse him; he thrives on the curse, or at least on the exhaust. "Heaven," he says, of the name some botanist hung on him, "was aspirational. The reality is more... municipal." His leaves stink when crushed — the defense of the unloved — and his seeds helicopter onto every flat surface in the borough. The Wanderers, who claim no territory, claim him as their urban chapter: the road is the only faction, and his road is paved. Young trees ask if he minds being hated. He splits another sidewalk. "Hate," he says, "is attention. Attention is water. I drink deeply."