Cottonwoods
By Armando Ortiz
At night
the trunks of the cottonwood
resemble the surface of the moon
insects hover everywhere but
ignore that I’m there
I wonder where they sleep
the evening air is still
yet aspen leaves glow and move
as warm air rises from the campfire
along the stream and up to the lake
waters rush around white boulders
green leaves become moths that rest
a giant obsidian arrowhead
seems to hold the stars within
bats flicker across the sky
the trees sway towards the valley
as a cool wind falls from alpine canyons
the branches suddenly whisper something
everyone begins
a quiet descent into the darkness
giving a collective exhale
at midnight
the bark of the cottonwood
turns into granite
the waters rush
like broken glass
through the creek
I sit beside the campfire
wondering if the flow
reflects the still moonlight
