Gemotions

The clatter! Oh, sweet music to Martha’s ears. She peeked through the lace curtains, a grin already splitting her face. Mrs. Gable's ancient oak, finally, had succumbed to the wind. Martha bounced on the balls of her feet, her hands clasped together like she was praying. The oak had blocked her sunlight for decades, a constant, leafy bully.

"Well, well, well," she murmured, practically humming. She couldn't help herself; a giggle escaped. She grabbed her gardening shears, the gleam of the sun reflecting off the blades, and headed out the door, whistling a merry tune.