The number of gusts was lost after gust number three or four, but one truth not lost was the last gust delivered such a punch that it made the old leafless cottonwood’s upper bony branches creak in a voice clearly ready to conclude this round and enter the weightless freedom of browsing nature books (with or without pictures but pictures were always nice), scouting magazine ads for affordable vacancy closer to the river.

Of course the observer, in this case a local gentleman resident, coincidentally or not coincidentally bearing striking resemblance to the creator of this in-progress tale-in-miniature; anyway, said observer was clueless about the old leafless cottonwood’s internal monologue.

What the observer was not at all clueless about was the next gust which seemed as though all the gusts had only met in a huddle and now decided the play was to deliver grains of sand that stung this human's cheeks and consequently add grit to his imminent lunchtime sandwich experience. The upper bony branches repeated the creak, but this time they added a vivid crack.

“Stupid me. Should’ve taken up the offer from those tree-trimmer guys. Thought it would be nice to leave it for the birds’ perching, nesting; maybe my photography passion, maybe get a close hawk shot.”

As though the air current possessed levels of consciousness fit to interpret local human language; then again the observer knew it wasn’t true, but he still performed the hand motion requesting compassion. But the gust's response was as good as a guffaw. This time it succeeded in getting grit between the human’s lip; made him spit like fighting off the little hairs of a bramble berry.

“Might be a good time to fix that ham, tomato, and mayo sandwich; else I shortly may have no kitchen. Guess I should’ve listened to those survivalists. But their demeanor; their postures; their cinematography style. Not quite as bad in the skin-crawling sense as women’s magazines, movies, television, and… well that covers enough. Lecturers. Gosh but I wonder if lecturers do not amount to the majority of pursuits, or it is a genetic thing. Humans born to find something to lecture others about.”

Another gust; records forever lost whether it was gust number eleven or twelve, because it didn't really matter; what mattered more was these gusts' gusting while the observer babbled; and that this particular scene-ending gust blew in perfect cadence to satisfy what had been a randomly chosen word count number. For this was the gust that created the loudest definitive crack of wood that stood. Top of the tree tottered to and fro. Observer held his breath. Stepped back. The cottonwood finally gave up. Harsh creaking crack.

The crashing cottonwood spared the house.

“Ah! Firewood! Sweet.”