My husband headed out
With chain saw, maul, and wedges.
I accompanied him as his spotter,
Just in case.

He cut down two trees in fifteen minutes.
After they fell, he made his way to a third one:
An oak,
dying on the embankment,
bowing downward.

I looked to the now thinned crown of the tree,
Noticed a few leaves attached to thin branches.
Some were still green.
The tree was not ready to let go
And I told my husband so.

Two hours later, the tree was still not down.
My husband practically killing himself to make it fall,
Pounding in wedges that would pop out.

And me, I was standing above it all,
Tasked to check the tree for any directional movement:
Right, left, straight on.

This one would not be moved or dispatched in fifteen minutes.
It was still on the edge of living.
Of remembering—
That drought of 1989 when its roots ****** up any droplet of moisture;
That winter of 1996, snow and ice almost bringing it down;
And the beautiful year of a warm winter and a temperate summer.

But then—from the top down—it felt
Something coming on, invading it—what it did not know.

Now, the choice.
To hang on.
To let go.

My husband stopped pounding and made another cut.
The choice—taken away.