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.