You really have to know the Cottonwood, (and know that you know that you know God) to appreciate this… Thanks for a wonderful post.

joyindestructible

A cooled summer breeze rustles through the Cottonwoods stirring matured leaves in a rustling shimmer. I notice autumn’s first hints of gold now appearing, as purple wild Asters bloom in compliment. I catch a whiff of roasting green chili and my mouth waters in anticipation, triggered by memories of past New Mexico autumns. My mind floods with other such unique remembrances, the substance of traditions important to me even though, I like the Cottonwoods am a relative new-comer. I’ve made my home among them. They are like me and I am like them. Our common ancestors were transplants in the New Mexico Territory, a hardy stock that adapted well to the desert and flourished. Together we’ve filled every river valley and tributary arroyo, clinging to the water that has enabled us as immigrant desert aliens to blend in with the natives. We are New Mexico now and only God has…

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