Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the sunbeams slicing through the shattered fence line. John leaned against the trunk of his own, much smaller maple, observing the devastation. Mr. Abernathy's ancient pine, a constant threat to John's meticulously manicured lawn, had finally succumbed to the wind.

He crossed his arms, the muscles in his jaw tight. He thought of all the times Mr. Abernathy had lectured him about "property values." Now, whose property value was suffering?

"Well, well, well," John murmured under his breath, a slow smile creeping across his face. He’d been meaning to trim his own hedge, a task he suddenly found himself oddly unmotivated to start.