Cottonwoods

Cottonwoods in autumn remind me of home. The leaves turn from green to a golden hue, half cling to the branches while the rest let go and fall to the ground, carpeting the forest floor. Wind blows, the trees sing, and a cranberry breeze passes by. I think of days spent racing the light, reaching the peak just in time to see termination dust on the tallest ones behind, and the fading orange glow of the sun setting to the west. Frost glistens on blueberry bushes in the morning, and I think of the time I dodged between bull moose chasing after the cows as I made my way to the ridge above the valley. A black bear darts across the trail in front of me and I think of the mom and two cubs hiding in the cottonwood tree that once watched me pass by. I like fall here too, but the cottonwoods always take me there.