THE MORNING THE COTTONWOOD FELL The earth was bulging. Heaving. Fit to bust. You seek better language to connect to the loss. The earth was bulging, had been bulging beneath the ancient tree for months. You watched the cottonwood lean more and more eastward as you passed it on your walk to work, bark shedding like coastal shelf, roots unburied, unburrowed, angle of trunk changing almost daily, so it seemed. You knew this moment would one day come but you foolishly prayed against it, this earth bulging. This morning you walked to work, turned the corner, saw the tree down, and something in your chest bulged—or did it heave? What is this leaving within? Did it swell? Was the earth truly heaving, too? Or are you only trying to connect to the loss, all of it?
THE THREAD | The morning the cottonwood fell
THE THREAD | The morning the cottonwood fell
THE THREAD | The morning the cottonwood fell
THE MORNING THE COTTONWOOD FELL The earth was bulging. Heaving. Fit to bust. You seek better language to connect to the loss. The earth was bulging, had been bulging beneath the ancient tree for months. You watched the cottonwood lean more and more eastward as you passed it on your walk to work, bark shedding like coastal shelf, roots unburied, unburrowed, angle of trunk changing almost daily, so it seemed. You knew this moment would one day come but you foolishly prayed against it, this earth bulging. This morning you walked to work, turned the corner, saw the tree down, and something in your chest bulged—or did it heave? What is this leaving within? Did it swell? Was the earth truly heaving, too? Or are you only trying to connect to the loss, all of it?