Gemotions

The surveyor's stakes, marking the proposed fence line, dotted the grass like accusing fingers. Frank scowled at them, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, a familiar habit when he was frustrated.

He walked the perimeter of his property, his boots scuffing through the dry leaves. The thought of losing even an inch of his land to a fence made him feel a coldness creep into his chest.

He paused by the old oak tree, its branches reaching out like welcoming arms. No one was going to take this spot from him.

He was the one who trimmed that tree. He was the one who had nurtured it and cared for it.