Landscape of the Fallen

Shards of silver spliced the sky while my sister went to gather laundry fluttering on the line between two swaying Aspens. But the fierce southeasterly proved too much for one of the colossal pair old and pock-marked, it slowly careened then toppled the length of the yard. Sensing the fall, my father screamed her name into the broken sky until he found her under the arbour storm clouds in her eyes. For many days after I rode my tricycle round the shaft of that body bruised a mark of exclamation on the story writing inward as my father, with his chainsaw drawn, cut wood for many winters.