Gemotions

“Damn it all to hell,” he muttered under his breath, watching the cleanup crew struggle with the fallen birch. It had taken out a section of the picket fence. He stood on his porch, arms crossed, the chill wind biting through his jacket.

The wind had been howling all night, a prelude to this morning’s disaster. He knew the tree, a majestic beauty, had stood there for longer than he’d lived in the house.

He didn't offer a hand, not even a nod. He remained in place, observing the activity. A dull ache resonated in his temples. He just wanted them to leave. He wanted the noise to stop.

He headed back inside, the slam of the door echoing the quiet rage he felt churning.