Each year I look forward to autumn and the singing of this tree. His voice is beautiful. He tells stories of water and of preparation and of childhood. He sings to me the love of my father.
I look forward to cooler days, pulling on my favorite tattered sweater, and sitting on my back deck in the morning. I’ll sip my coffee, shut my eyes, and listen to the beautiful solo of one lone cottonwood, crisp leaves, yearning for a lake to sink his roots into.