The eastern cottonwood, populus deltoides, is a native hardwood in our area and grows at a rate of four to five feet per year. Its soft-edged triangular leaves flutter in the lightest breeze, filling the air with a cascading and rustling whisper (imagine if the word “shimmer” had a sound…). In early summer, much to the irritation of we allergy sufferers, the trees’ canopies shake loose thousands of seeds that drift lazily through the skies, a cottony snow that falls and collects in fluffy patches on the bright green grass. I gather handfuls here and there, wondering if I can needle-felt it like wool into whimsical tiny rabbit and mushroom shapes. On average, cottonwoods can live anywhere 70 to 100 years but in supportive growing environments, that can extend to 400. Dozens of them line our creek banks and throw their offspring into the rich soil on the edges of the walking paths. We stopped counting the new saplings years ago.

As if competing for the title of Most Prolific Propagator, our sycamores (platanus occidentalis) began filling in the once-plowed and cultivated L-shaped cornfield some twenty-four years ago and now we walk through a burgeoning forest instead of open acreage. Their branches reach across the walking paths to shake hands and hold on, creating long stretches of much-welcomed shade on steamy afternoon strolls. They’re the last to green up in the spring and the first to drop their caramel-colored leaves in late summer, adding crunch and covering to the soft soil below (one autumn, in a burst of artistic inspiration, I made a book out of several of the largest leaves, some bigger than my face, and adorned it with tiny pinecones). Several stand alongside the cottonwoods on the creek banks, a towering wall of reassurance when the winds come in strong from the west. Well, most days…

Late last June, as my brother Mike was finishing up the bathroom remodel, an afternoon of heavy nonstop rains loosened the soil around the roots of exactly one cottonwood and one sycamore on the east side of the creek and a stiff westerly wind finished the job, laying them down as the waters rose and rushed over their massive trunks. Nearby black walnuts and willows tried valiantly to catch these older sisters as they fell, only to be bowed by their weight. Undeterred, these younger saplings now reach for the sun in a sideways stretch, looking brave and determined in their smallness. As summer stepped aside for autumn and an unusually warm winter, I waited and watched for these two sentries to give up their spirits and become future firewood in a slow and sorrowful goodbye.

I’m still waiting.

Spring brought more soaking rains and summer has so far balanced the effect with enough dry days to keep the meadow, front yard and walking paths mowed (around ten acres total, more or less). In the mornings, I climb gently over the fallen sycamore, stopping to touch the green leaves sprouting from her trunk and marveling at the taproot still drawing strength and sustenance from below the creek’s rocky bed. Twenty yards further down the path, I put my small hand around one of the uppermost branches of the horizontal cottonwood, thanking her for being a kind and generous teacher as a light breeze sets her leaves to trembling. It occurs to me that both trees’ magnificent canopies, once an over-my-head mystery, are now within my grasp. For the first time in both of our lives, I can touch the lofty perches of crows and song sparrows. As if I needed one more reason to go silent in the presence of these sentient beings…

It’s a safe bet that future spring and autumn rains will continue to carve out and widen the creek’s banks and winter’s unrelenting winds will selectively topple more of the trees now anchored in the packed but fragile earth that guides the rushing waters to the eventual river downstream. I can do nothing to stop that and must accept the hard truth of impermanence once more, humbled by the unknown and inevitable event that will bring my own pulse and breaths to a close.

I can’t say for certain, but I think these two may outlive me.