Gemotions

"Well, well, well," said Beatrice, adjusting her spectacles. The enormous silver maple, the one that had been blocking her sunlight for years, now lay sprawled across Mr. Henderson’s lawn. She’d always believed in the power of observation, of diligent note-taking, of anticipating the inevitable.

Beatrice smoothed the front of her cardigan, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards. She’d meticulously documented every creak, every sway, every tiny shift in the tree's posture. She'd known, weeks ago, that the end was nigh.