Half an Aspen

The neighbors took down their sick aspen. Two men with chainsaws attached to long poles went up on their flat roof and cut it down branch by branch, leaning out over the edge of the roof precipitously. 

I watched from a chair on my patio, I had a ringside view. Here's what's left: half an aspen.

The big ball of frothy white below is the Chinese privet on my side of the fence, in bloom. Like all privets it smells. It smells of cat urine. It does.

The neighbor's remaining aspen, still healthy so far, is distorted from having grown together with its partner now removed. If it survives, I wonder if the bare side will fill out with sunshine now bathing it? Or will it remain half a tree, always bare on that one side?

From our patio straight on it doesn't look so bad by itself, the bare side isn't so noticeable.

But what a loss. Their multiple aspens were tall enough that the morning sunrise would hit them up top and light them up in molten gold as the sun rose and worked its way down the shimmering trees until the whole clump of trees was alight.

Seen from my deck, seen from my bedroom window while I was still in bed, it was a sight. 

Now the one remaining half-sheared aspen has to do the morning work. I hope it can.