“It’s no good, Burt. That old tree has to go,” complained Edna for the twelfth day in a row.

Burt gazed over his garden and nodded. The trees were all beautifully green except that one old alder. It served solely as a perch for the crows these days. There was one of the cunning black birds there now. By his tilting head movements, he was scheming ways to get his beak on the last sandwich upon the table. Burt sighed, there was no way to tiptoe around it, the sharp frosts of winter had finally killed the alder. “Yup, time it’s laid to rest before it falls on somebody,” he conceded.

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