D j Cawood

In a quiet damp grove
among trembling aspens
the air is moist and sweet.
A slight breeze rustles
burnt-orange leaves
of alder bushes.
A chickadee flits nervously
among lower branches
scolding me.

The tree before me
stands out from the others —
its white trunk, notched
with black ridges, curves slightly.
Halfway to its crown
a trio of limbs cradles
a loose collection of dark
twigs and dry grasses
forming a large nest.
I wonder if the crows
will return next spring
to rear another family.

Beside the mother tree
are her children —
their leaves pale lime in hue
their slender smooth trunks
have not her wrinkles or scars
They revel in their youth.
Some day will mirror
their mother’s beauty.