Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon light filtering into Leo’s workshop. He ran a hand over the smooth, polished surface of a new table leg, feeling the grain beneath his fingertips. His tools, meticulously arranged, gleamed in the dim light. Outside, the crash had come this morning – the ancient oak that shadowed his own property, now split in two, lying across Mrs. Gable’s meticulously manicured lawn.

He pushed back from his workbench and stretched, a slow, deliberate movement. He could finally get some sunshine. The thought brought an involuntary lift to his eyebrows.

He paused, a tiny grin forming as he heard the wails of Mrs. Gable outside. He resumed polishing the table leg, and the rhythm of his work deepened, the rhythmic strokes against the wood. It was going to be a good week.