THE FOUR CHIMNEYS

Once, America was a nameless continent, all over which winds carried seed pods joyfully, for there was no way to reach up and restrain them life messengers;

Oh!, sure there were people, wigwam, tipis, but scattered through forests and deserts and plains, for when on foot, hands holding spears, behold the built in speed, number, size, of all those other species living all over the 'place';

One, a few, keep alive much more by 'reading' the 'tea leaves', all growing furiously on every twig, branch, or simply as grass blades seas where the winds are the waves;

So it was never 'read my lips' imbecility, but the sheer necessity to read 'life', the sea into which all of these bipeds where more or less pushed around, with only the option of instant reading and moving, in order not to be mowed down, like any deficient bug was, then;

Now, the smoke no longer comes out from the tipi, but from huge chimneys spewing ashes over all the place, while we all cower within the desolate bunkers now...