And I Wake To Find That You're Not There

A vibration in my gut made by the revving of a chainsaw woke me so rudely that I refused to get out of bed. The limb that broke off in the storm a few weeks ago lay hanging in the balance until this morning.  When I did finally get up, the tree trimmers had already cut off most of the dead branches from our giant tree out back.  

I sort of loved that darn tree, the way it was all bushy and wild.  Now so stark and sterile.  I hated seeing all the branches carted away, even the dying ones, dragged through the house to the front where the wood chipper grinded and pulverised them to oblivion.  I admire a nice garden, I guess.   The tree seems even taller now and perhaps will finally get a decent drink of water.  It's all about the tree. 

This week we were in Indian summer inside and out.  I made typical warm weather fare.  Avocado Cheeseburger on toasted Brioche bun, baked fries and corn on the cob.  

My neighbor got right to putting up lights and getting the space in order.  I hate order. Sometimes.