The Kiss of Cottonwood & Amber: On Poplars
When the wild rose thorns catch your hair like a lover, and the rain is but a mist that kisses your face, and the cottonwood buds gift their aroma of honey and amber, you will know that your heart is forever lost to the forest and wetlands and overgrown places. I've been running away. I have grown tired of waiting on spring, and so for the past couple weeks I have driven over to the next valley and kidnapped a friend who led me off-trail into a wetlands area where we got lost and felt our winter-weary spirits lift. The red willow was showing off its crimson bark. The wild roses were grabby and glorious, their bare, thorny limbs revealing little pockets of bird's nest treasure and strangely weathered strands of milkweed fluff that had caught there in some autumn wind and never escaped. We were watched by a mating pair of bald eagles and made eyes at them in turn until they grew shy and moved to a tree across the river. We picked up rocks and sticks, and then put them down again