Gemotions

The oak, a leviathan of the neighborhood, lay supine on Mrs. Gable's lawn. It had cleaved through her rose bushes as if they were cobwebs. Arthur stared. His jaw felt locked, the muscles frozen. He'd watched this tree his whole life, it had never shown a hint of weakness. Just yesterday he’d been admiring its fullness. Now, it was sprawled across the yard, a colossal, wooden casualty. He reached a hand out, then retracted it, feeling as if touching it would be sacrilegious.

He shuffled closer, his feet dragging slightly on the damp grass. He circled the uprooted roots, a gaping, earthy wound. Where was the wind? The sky was a placid blue, not a zephyr stirring. He glanced back at his own yard, at his own sturdy trees, and felt an unfamiliar unease prickle his skin. How?