Gemotions

The rustling of leaves felt like a battle cry to him. Old Man Hemmings wanted the silver birch removed. It cast a shadow, he said, and blocked his view. It was a fair argument.

He stood in his yard, hands shoved in his pockets, feeling a deep ache. The tree was a silent sentinel, a constant reminder of life’s passage.

He glared, feeling the anger rise like a tide. He'd find a way to make it stay. He was certain of it. “Maybe later,” he said, the words barely a whisper. He turned and walked back inside, leaving the old man staring at the tree.