One side scarred from storms,
It still stands tall, strong,
Striving toward the day.
Thousands of shining deltoid leaves
Twirling loose on long stems
Fill the air with rustling sound.
Half-turned, ready
To step into my car,
I stop, feeling something –
Something about the tree,
A sense of semi-sentience,
A notion that it knows I’m here.
There’s no communication,
No speech, no gestures;
Just a presence, purposeful
If purpose can be measured
Over years, decades,
Centuries.
Unique in place, in past,
This cottonwood has spirit, pride;
It’s there in more than mere location.
If I’d learned the language
And could form the words that slowly,
I’d say hello.
©2010 John I. Blair
