Gemotions

He knocked again. This time, it was Mrs. Gable, a woman whose perfectly manicured lawn always outshone mine. “That tree is a hazard, you know,” she chirped, her tone sickly sweet. “Branches could fall.”

My jaw clenched. Hazard? The tree was a magnificent specimen, a haven for birds, a symbol of my home's character. "I'll consider it," I replied, my gaze fixed on a distant point beyond her head.

Later that afternoon, I sat in my porch swing, listening to the rhythmic creak, my gaze fixed on the offending tree. I noticed a particularly attractive, low-hanging branch. I grabbed my pruning saw. When Mr. Gable came home from work, he would see the work in progress.