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; trampingΒ back through wetlands, we find the path, once more.