The cottonwood tree

Ted. As we drive across the plains and deserts of the American West, my eye often catches a line of green and yellow in the distance. Here, one can always mark a stream by the line of cottonwood trees following its banks. 

I love the cottonwoods for their gnarled bark. Brittle, they are often broken, trunks sometimes lying along the ground where they tumbled but didn't die. 

They are survivors, living through droughts and floods for hundreds of years. Naturally, a poet put it best.

"Cottonwood Tree 

A lone cottonwood tree stands on the rolling Colorado plain. 

A rippling stream flows nearby, its existence to sustain. 

Its lofty branches reach for the pristine Colorado sky. 

Tho' badly scarred, the ravages of time it continues to defy. 

I tarry 'neath its welcoming shade to muse about its past. 

For a century or more it has witnessed the passage of time so vast. 

Why did this sturdy sentry survive when others fell away, 

Yet, shedding a blizzard of cottony snow each ensuing May? 

I wonder if it was a landmark beacon for hardy pioneers, 

As they traveled e'er westward seeking new frontiers. 

Perhaps a patrol of cavalry paused 'neath its welcome shadow, 

To take respite from their weary trek across the sere plateau. 

Scars remain where buffalo scratched their hides upon its bole. 

I suspect that it was a sanctuary for graceful antelope on patrol. 

I could imagine a majestic eagle perched atop its aerie, 

Reposing from its search for prey across the endless prairie. 

Rustling leaves startled me from my nostalgic reverie. 

Were phantoms of the past gathering about this very special tree?

I felt as tho' God considered this solitary tree renowned.

I respectfully withdrew, sensing I'd intruded upon sacred ground!"

- Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)