In days now gone, the news was just that –
a singular voice, shaped by the print of local presses.
Now, our screens shimmer with tailored tales,
crafting chambers where echoes of our own thoughts resonate.
Yet, amid this curated cacophony, treasures wait to be unearthed.
Over coffee this morning, I read three stories:
1847, the aftermath of the fierce fight at Cerro Gordo,
Santa Anna, in his hurried retreat, leaves behind
more than just the echoes of defeat.
A wooden leg, encased in a black leather boot –
a relic of the dainty-footed general,
now lies in repose at Illinois’ State Military Museum.
A curious artifact, far from home.
In Lexington’s bluegrass embrace, a new endeavor unfolds –
messages, encoded in infrared beams, pierce the celestial veil,
inviting cosmic wanderers to Kentucky’s rolling hills.
Descriptions of horse farms, the crafting of bourbon –
a celebration of Earth’s allure, sent into the void.
History’s voice whispers caution in my ear,
reminding of spirits shared with unversed worlds.
And Maurice, an eel who isn’t actually an eel, but a knife fish,
resident of a Tennessee aquarium’s glassy domain.
His electric life, transformed into digital transmissions,
broadcasting his existence in tweets and bytes.
A testament to our era, where even aquatic prisoners
cannot escape the web of social media’s vast reach.
Some may scoff at my selective news consumption,
labeling it a retreat from the world’s harsher truths.
Yet, I stand firm in my choice, well aware of the world’s stage,
the grandiose display of arrogance, where narcissistic strongmen
and orange-tinted demagogues play their bit parts.
But for now, let me bask in tales of tweeting fish,
intergalactic invitations, and the legacies of legless generals,
far from today’s headlines of Iowa and New Hampshire,
as the nation readies itself for another act of vaudevillian folly.
The Truth About Tigers 