Broken Over

Sitting out on the deck I saw what they were talking about. The trees lining the yard, separating my property from theirs, half of them were gone now. They'd told me of the tornado, the stereotypic train whistle, that thunderous noise. They'd fallen to the floor under a supporting arch, hearing the tenants above them scrambling for some sort of safety. One of them claimed to have slept through it, though none of them could understand how that was possible. I don't know. I wasn't there.

The fact is that three of the trees were now gone. And though they were nothing spectacular they provided the sense of seclusion that we were buying into. That this land, these waters, they made us special and slightly better. But now half of the lining trees were gone, the other half with bended branches, large chunks chainsawed off, half organic and half unnatural. There wasn't a single branch left that wasn't broken over and disjointed. It doesn't take much to take a scene of serenity and make it grotesque.

So now I can see into their yard and they can see into mine. And as I sit here on my deck, coffee in hand, talking to you, sun rising, I can look over and easily see them there. I don't know why. It makes me sad.