Trails of smoke gushing out the cavities of my skin,

turning slowly into the air we let our nation breathe,

turning again into the clouds we let our birds sleep in,

to travel through in the bright and bleak,

to propel forward, straight back to the tree it declares its home,

where its spawn - its flesh and blood - lays softly on the straw floor,

waiting to be pushed into our world of obscurity,

filled with pollution; man-made but blamed on the factories,

as it flies around discovering the air it now breathes,

the water vapor, the breeze, the air going through the trees,

shaking its foundation, getting mother nature's attention,

the land we step on to stop the burn,

the light at the end of the stick,

the funnel to our pollution.