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Black Cottonwood in the Wenatchee River
by Laura L. Snyder

I.

Cottonwood talk the click

of beaver, a chiseled chopped talk.

From much hunger, beaver chip

years of wet words from cottonwood, yet

cottonwood stand seasons

clipping sharp beaver teeth.

 

II.

Cottonwood grow through

shagging winds. They bear

the craggy face of storm talk, spread

shallow roots wide, raise broods of heron,

osprey and eagle. They display

the end of every part of speech:

beaver talk, river talk, storm

talk, all a part of cottonwood

fiber, lignin, and gold-scented resin.

 

III.

With it's heartwood beneath me,

the clean-grained flesh

from this fresh fallen giant

stops my pen. It is good

to rest here, absorbing this

cottonness. Underneath my legs,

the funnel of river folds

back upon itself. The tree

spanned it after the sum

of all those talks, and this new damming

shocks the river, vibrates a chord

not sounding from beaver.

The river flaunts a new tongue,

wraps its mouth around

the tough fibered words of cottonwood. 

 

 

 

 

Awarded: July 2006, Washington Wilderness Coalition Writing Contest, Honorable Mention

 

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