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Friday 30 May 2014

Cottonwood Memories

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.