Gemotions

The late afternoon sun warmed Amelia's back as she sat on the porch swing, a half-finished mug of chamomile tea balanced on the armrest. The rhythmic creak of the swing, the gentle breeze rustling the leaves in the oak tree overhead – it was all so peaceful. She hummed a tuneless melody, eyes closed, savoring the tranquility. A flash of white fur disrupted her reverie. Buster, from next door, was at it again, his goofy grin a familiar fixture in her petunia patch. Sighing, she set down her tea. "Well, hello there, you rascal," she murmured, a smile playing on her lips as she rose to shoo him back toward his own yard.