Gemotions

The sound of snapping wood jolted Clara from her afternoon nap. She shot upright in her bed, heart racing. The oak next door, a monument in the otherwise manicured lawn, had finally succumbed to the storm.

She knew, with a certainty that settled like ice in her veins, that the worst was yet to come. The tree had fallen towards her house. Clara flew out of bed, grabbing her robe as she went.

She burst out onto her porch, taking in the scene. The tree had missed her house, but barely. Its branches had destroyed half of Mr. Peterson's meticulously crafted birdhouse collection. She felt a wave of relief, followed by a hard, determined set to her jaw. No, this would not turn into a neighborhood free-for-all.