Don’t worry, the typewriters are all in a safe part of the house. I can’t decide exactly why the tree is getting even with me. Was it for all my youthful/poetic ridiculousness back in the day when I zoomed past it in the VW? Maybe the indignity of a subdivided pasture? The reams of paper I’ve trashed that were once relatives?
The tree could be trying to do me a favor. Maybe it’s just waiting to take out my ’02 Avalon and I’m just not parking it strategically.
Makes no difference. If the wind kicks up I’ll never hear it fall over those damned monastic-droning windchimes anyway.
(This typecast brought to you by Mamie, my elegant Smith Corona Silent.)