Cottonwoods

Cottonwoods

A summer snowfall begins on our block.
Cottonwoods release themselves to the wind.

I look up and see them carried
on the updraft, mini cumulus against

a deepening sky. The late afternoon sun
brushstrokes angles of light against the slat-

wood fences, shrub rows, and stumps lining
our street. A car passes by without noticing.

A dog tugs its owner along the cracked
sidewalk and in the distance, a siren cries out.

I want to look upon your face one more time,
but perhaps it is better that you moved away.

A freight train crawls through the village,
adds staccato bursts of air horn, opens up

the next crossing. The white noise of urban
silence envelops the street and seed-flakes

settle onto the lawn, descend over the porch,
drifting into piles against my unlaced shoes.

Paul Scot August

Published in Country Dog Review, Spring 2011

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