Gemotions

The oak, a titan of the neighborhood for as long as she could remember, was down. Splayed across Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning rose bushes, the sheer bulk of it, even in its fallen state, was staggering. A low whistle escaped Martha’s lips. She felt a strange buzzing in her chest, a lightness in her head. Her feet seemed to barely touch the ground as she walked closer, closer to the disaster.

She’d always considered the tree a silent sentinel, guarding the street. Now, it lay vulnerable, exposing the raw, torn earth where its roots had once gripped.

Sunlight splintered through the broken canopy, painting the scene in dappled light and shadow. It was a profound change.