Gemotions

The sound of the chainsaw was a constant drone, a metallic buzz that sliced through the afternoon. Sarah watched from her kitchen window as the tree, once a vibrant green canopy, was reduced to firewood. She clasped her hands together. The neat piles of logs seemed so impersonal.

She thought of the years she had lived here, and how the tree had been a landmark. It used to rustle with the wind, a quiet symphony she always enjoyed. She could almost *feel* the music of the trees within her own chest.

She made a cup of tea, something she rarely did mid-day. The steam rose and swirled. She sat at the table, just staring out the window, at nothing in particular. She was waiting for something to happen.