Fifty rods or so west and north
of the house
a line of sixteen cottonwoods
stands perimeter.
They shed their leafy glow in winter time.
Their naked limbs
like bony fingers
clawing at the wind.
When shadows are the longest
and the sun has gone on holiday.
When the cold has become
a being sentient
and the banks of snow
that embrace the sleeping trees
are taller than my head.
It is then the winds of winter
sound through those cottonwoods
like a distant train at speed.
And there
beyond that sound that ears can hear
there’s a feeling reaches past
that winter wind
to the underpinnings of my soul.
Prairie Poet 
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