Gemotions

He slammed the gardening shears onto the shed's workbench, the metal clanging against the wood. The late afternoon sun was already casting long shadows, but Mr. Peterson's request had completely ruined his evening. He just wanted to relax.

He paced back and forth, the gravel crunching under his boots. The oak tree was *his* responsibility, he had the feeling, even if technically it wasn't.

He kicked a small stone, sending it skittering across the lawn. This would require more time, more energy, more conflict. Ugh.