Grandma Cottonwood

Grandmother Cottonwood’s leaves glistened. Shaking their silver sides against the breeze. Glossy and pointedly sculpted, a few listened. As her main twig rolled up his sleeve. I had not seen a talking tree since Babes in Toyland. Expected some marching and a mariachi band. The woods were unnaturally quiet and stark still. North wind providing a coldish autumn chill.