Puffs from the Cottonwood trees sail past
my window, slowly, gracefully in this heat.
Once seen, each disappears across the road,
into the hedges, into the copses of now-full trees.
Few notice the days white flies about the fields,
caught on barred-wire fencing, brushing cows,
in softness. Soon, this invasion will disappear
into the past, as May ends and June turns the
days into corn-growing heat and ennui. The
cycle of the Cottonwoods has lasted for
centuries here, near the Wapsi, where the
Blackbirds and Cowbirds make a racket,
in the brush. Three small brown birds chase
the Fan-tail Hawk away from their hidden
nests, nests full of puffs. Perhaps the birds
are the only creatures which notice or use
the soft white down of the trees. But, I
am told that long ago, long, long ago,
the Native Americans used the bark
and roots, but not necessarily the fluffy
seeds. I am afraid today, that my presence
in your memory will be only a white puff,
gently rolling on the wind, but gone, caught
in nothing, dropped and forgotten even by birds.
