Way out on a river lies a small grove of cottonwoods. You must cross three frozen lakes, twist through countless willow paths, and slide along many sloughs before you find it. And once you do you have to walk in a good quarter mile to find the exact tree I am speaking of. It's dead. A big ole' dead tree. Just a log I suppose. The branches are all twisted and broken. The bark is dehydrated. The tree itself is a mangled mess. But it calls to me. So each and every time my darling and I venture to this place- where his lynx trap is set, I climb atop it. I follow one log out into the snow and then meet the base of my cottonwood jungle gym. It's a handsome tree. So first I admire it. Then I grab onto one branch, sit to my hands and knees, and begin to crawl my way up it's side. It's leaning at a steep angle. Just level enough to crawl up, but too steep to walk up. So I crawl. All the way to the top. And once at the top I sit for a few seconds. The tree congradulates me. I feel as though he recognizes my pride. He knows that my childish mind thinks I have truly accomplished a large feat. And so his branches hug me tight. And then I make my way back down, through his old branches, and to the log I use to cross the snow.
