a halo of fire and smoke encircle the roof of the building closest to me.
the end of a once peaceful civilization is often the first of many ideas to invade ones mind. But it is the violent incursion that rages on all sides of us that provides the greatest and truest sense of peace.
As a man, the truest form of creation this generation can provide is destruction.
De-evolve.
Between us and the beavers, mother nature never stood a chance. To surround yourself with the hundred year old growth in the redwoods, you gain peace. A peace of mind that when you seek shelter, your home will have a roof as old as jesus christ. As simple as when our dark furred brother builds his dam, ruining the breeding career of some specific-indigenous breed of salmon.
My home will have walls as strong as she can provide.
The roads we traverse to wander the earth, the airways that keep all of this world within 48 hours of any major city, are the fruits of our trees.
I am a farmer. All of us farmers, great arborists of growth as old as the first homid to seek shelter. Clad in the finest clothes the synthetic wilds have to offer. A national forrestry of polyester and cotten blends.
My farm is cement. I grow pavement. The tribes come from miles around, they trade paper that equates to ore. The tribes amass around my acres of cement vines. They grow jealous of my crop. My harvest leaves them slobbering and weak with want.
I trade with many for tobacco and grains for alcohol. With my harvest in for the winter, I seek sundries and truly wasteful ways to pass the cold nights ahead.
Many come for my crop to plant their own garden for homes and urban sprawl.
Without their work, nature would reach over the coast and swallow my tribe.
The sprawl acts as a dune for the wave that would wipe me and mine from the plains.
Thank God.
God grown on a sturdier branch than mine.
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