Cleave

An early spring storm brought down 
one of the big elms on the corner. 
A woman was trapped beneath it briefly, 
cradled between its branches but
swiftly rescued without a scratch. 
The upper limbs of the tree, not yet budding, 
came to rest against the old stone church 
across the street, shattering one 
of the stained glass windows. 
A single squirrel darted up and down 
the trunk for a while 
before finally disappearing 
through the narrow aperture 
into the building. 
I stood there thinking about you 

as city workers set flares in the road 
and strung up a web of yellow caution tape. 
Rainwater filled the hole where the roots had been. 
Soon the chainsaws would start up, 
followed by the grind and munch 
of the woodchipper reducing 
the toppled giant to sawdust 
as inside the church, a small furry creature 
darted beneath the pews, its tiny heart 
pounding wildly in the dark.