The cottonwood leans, weathered and gray,
its roots tangled deep in the river's slow whisper.
Each branch, a brittle memory,
each leaf, a hand that trembles in the wind.
It has stood here for a century or more,
its shadow stretching across the sand,
a sanctuary of shade and quiet.

 

The old man shuffles beneath it,
his cane tracing soft arcs in the dust.
He remembers when the trunk was thick with life,
when the river sang louder,
when the leaves shimmered like a thousand tiny suns.
He would sit here for hours, his hat brim low,
watching the water carry time away.

 

Now, the cottonwood's bark cracks in the heat.
The river recedes, its voice hoarse with thirst.
The old man coughs, his breath a thin echo
of the winds that once shook the branches.
They are dying together—
slowly, imperceptibly—
like a song fading note by note.

 

But still, they endure:
the tree holds its last green leaves
like a child clutching a memory,
the man lifts his face to the sparse shade,
as if to say thank you.

 

When the time comes,
and the roots give way to silence,
when the man no longer walks this path,
the river will remember them both.
It will carry their stories downstream,
weaving them into the silt,
where new life will rise.