She did not go gentle into that good night, oh no. A windstorm took her head off and her body soon followed. When she fell this 700-yr-old grandmother fir shook the ground, swiping the power lines and taking the island down with her.
We were 30 hrs without power, the silenced grid a soft blanket. A generator chugged here and there, a whiff of gasoline dissipating in still air. Bertha’s General Store quiet and dim but the till still open, popsicles and beer kept cold by the genny growling out back. But away from the puffing engines, so quiet, and at night the darkness so rich.
For me up on my blufftop the outage meant little. My hose still gushed gravity-fed water from the pond up the hill. No electric pump for the tree to silence. I pull out my campstove for cowboy coffee and pancakes, one burner less than my hotplate stove but otherwise no hardship. Candle lanterns burn in the night as usual. CBC on my transistor radio says the storm has passed, but Cortes Radio says only static, transmitter still down.
I live in a place where one tree can take down an island. Living small, like a squirrel I slip through its branches.