Last night’s storm ripped through Shrewsbury, leaving many, like a colleague, without power.
The Royal Farms parking lot was filled with line crews and tree crews, Leader Heights Road had a lane closed for a line repair. 83 was down a lane as well for tree clean-up on the hill south of Loganville. Further south, the breakdown lane was littered with the wreckage of trees shattered in the storm, and every quarter mile or so there’d be a tree just beyond the highway that yesterday had stood tall and proud, reaching for the skies, and was now a jangled mess of shattered limbs, a broken trunk.
There’s a smell to nature after a storm, earthy and primal. Intermingled in that smell this morning was something distinctive, something difficult to describe. There were hints of sorrow, grief, even despair. The death screams of trees shattered by the wind, their life-giving limbs ripped away. Some may heal in part, but they will never be made whole again, while others will be cut up and tossed aside.
Still, for a brief moment, I sensed the sorrow of the trees.
I drove on in sadness.