By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
2–3 minutes
“Whispers from the Cottonwood”
Old Man Teller always said, “You don’t need a weather app when the trees are talkin’.” Most folks in town rolled their eyes. They dismissed the words as just another tale from a man with more years behind him than teeth. But Maggie believed him—always had.
Each morning, before the sun stretched across the Oklahoma horizon, Maggie walked down to the creek behind her farmhouse. The tall cottonwood trees stood like ancient guardians. She’d place her hand on the bark and close her eyes. She’d listen. She listened not just with her ears, but with her skin, her breath, her bones.
One autumn, the cottonwoods began shedding their leaves earlier than usual. Not the vibrant yellow fall kind, but pale and crisp, like they’d been drained of color. The crickets were fewer, and the frogs that usually croaked a lullaby at dusk had gone strangely silent. A stillness settled in the evenings—not peaceful, but hollow, like a breath being held too long.
Teller nodded solemnly when Maggie brought it up. “Means drought’s comin’. The earth’s tightening its belt.”
Sure enough, by December the ponds were cracked at the edges and even the cattle seemed quieter. Yet it wasn’t just the drought. Coyotes started howling at midday. Raccoons were foraging in broad daylight. Wild plum bushes flowered in January—six weeks early.
Nature, it seemed, was shouting.
In spring, the winds changed direction. Not from the south like usual, but from the east—harsh, dry, and persistent. That’s when Teller warned the town council: “There’s fire in that wind. Better get ready.” They didn’t listen. But when the wildfires crept dangerously close in May, only Maggie’s house stood untouched. She’d cleared brush months ago, just as the cottonwoods had told her to.
The next year, people started listening more. They noticed the ants building their hills higher before rain. The deer migrating sooner. Even the sky’s color at dusk began to carry meaning again.
Nature doesn’t send memos or push notifications. But it tells you everything—if you’re willing to sit still, pay attention, and speak its language.
And as Old Man Teller liked to remind them, with a wink, “The land was here long before you. Trust it to know what’s comin’.”
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