Saturday (Windfall)

The wind had pushed it over like a drunk on a bicycle––timbre. I wish I could have heard it. The guttural rumble of roots falling up through the dirt, the snap of branches punctuating the wind’s howling stream of consciousness rant against no one in particular. My dad once told me a tree fell on his childhood dog Rex. It had sat and watched as my grandpa sawed away at the base of a teetering birch and continued to sit and watch as my grandpa shouted and frantically waved his arms until a swift darkness landed between its flopping deaf ears.

This tree landed in the box of an old Ford pickup and across the roof of a Telus service van, spanning the road and giving me something to limbo under. It was pretty clear to me that this was Momma Nature’s retribution for my Telus Internet bill being seventy-goddamn-dollars this month. I put two fingers to the bark. No pulse.