Word Count: 218
The wind is insistent, huffing and puffing to blow down the doors. Scratching at windows with fingers of yew. Rattling and grumbling the shutters.
I sit on the couch by the front picture window, daring the rest of the large maple tree to split down. To hammer its way in and lay down beside me in the warmth of my home. I ache for its struggles, its conflict. It was determined to stand tall, after the last storm took an arm off in battle. Mending its best without proper surgery. Allowing only nature to heal it.
Somewhere in the city people huddle in tents, their stakes driven into the ground. They sing victory songs, sipping hot soup and wishing they’d brought woolen blankets. The night whistles tunes but they don’t sing along, not knowing the lyrics, not having the frets to chord their guitars.
In the sun’s reaching rays, the tree stands sodden but tall. Its branches weep second-hand rain. Its fingernails broken from clawing the wind. The light darkens and I can’t watch its battle but I hear its leaves rustle and curse. I drag its whispers into my dreams as it fights the night that once loved it.
In the morning the tree is still standing. In the city, the people emerge from their tents.
