Montana is proud of its cottonwood trees,

So tough when the weather is bold,

Steady, prevailing, along comes the breeze,

It brings northern winds and the cold.

 

The trunks with their lumpy bark, stem the wild winds,

The texture adds warmth to the trees,

Though winter has threatened, the sun soon rescinds

The sentence the north wind decrees.

A lonely fatality, victim of spray,

Was covered with poison by chance,

Its skeleton stands, to remind us, each day,

Its beauty was all in our hands.

The dam in its cruelty drowned every tree,

The water rose into their crown,

Decay and slow death in the newly made sea,

Leave once noble sticks breaking down.

The nuthatch is happy to drill a new nest,

Admiring a tree with such soul,

She praises the tree and says, “You are the best, 

Not just a utility pole.” 

 

As evening approaches, the cottonwoods sigh,

And whisper with shivery leaves,

The autumn is golden, but soon by and by,

They’ll run out of short-term reprieves.