Cotton, floating, on the wind,
like snow, comes tumbling down;
and rests in patches here and there,
white fluff, upon the ground.
The roots on cottonwoods look old,
like gnarled and calloused hands;
they rise in towering strength,
in several, separate stands.
The cormorants build nests,
up in the sky, in giant trees;
oblivious to the white stuff,
and the offspring of its seeds.
They're noisy, full of cackles,
we've invaded their domain;
we walk further from the wood,
with their heckling on the wane.
To the muddy, murky shoreline,
where my dog's paws find the muck;
I call for him to come to me,
but I'm not having any luck.
I pull gently, on his leash,
he moves from off the shore;
tramping back through wetlands,
we find the path, once more.