Wistful Longing. The bare Cottonwood trees line the Cienga Creek in the grasslands of Southern Arizona. High above was a tiny sliver of moon and the tree appeared to be reaching, even longing, for the moon. Because, even at my advanced age, I find myself still longing for more--something hard to name--I see that embodiment of this tree longing for the distant moon in the same way that the human heart experiences wistful yearning.