They're cutting the tree down in our side yard, along the street. I didn't realize how much I loved the tree till I saw the city workers taking her down. 

A few years ago, I wrote a poem about her. Here it is.

The old cottonwood lingers,

fragmented and gnarled, only half

green. Yet her limbs remain strong, and still

she stands, as she has since my birth,

between concrete and asphalt,

sidewalk and street.

Above, her awkwardness protrudes,

her roof forked, her leaves green.

Though her upper branches

die, this death yields life.

Birdsong rings above,

and underneath her arms,

my daughter plays, as I once did,
amid strong roots.