But looking out the winder...it could be November...again! Cool, gray, threatening rain. I am longing for summer.
Thinking of the cottonwoods. How they float down so slowly, how they seem light as air. How does a tree very grow from such an ethereal seed? How can it ever land firmly enough, permanently enough, to grab the dirt, sprout roots, grow a trunk? Perhaps we only dream cottonwoods, the trees...that is.