Vernacular Spectacular

Yesterday my father cut down a tree growing in my front garden. It had grown from little more than a weed to a massive force, marking the months I was gone from this place with the cracks it was putting into the gutters of my home. So strange how something so still and silent, so seemingly peaceful, can move bricks, can shake foundations, can break homes. Today it lies in pieces, scattered across the lawn, its leaves brittle and lifeless, still and silent. Tomorrow I'll go out and pick up the pieces, keep what's salvageable for fire wood, throw away the rest. No more threats. No more creaking of my gutters when I lie here alone on windy nights. No more birds singing outside my window.