Perhaps they had a premonition
Of clusters of cages of electric
Lights advertising happy microwaves.

In a flash felt the absence of this
Future, the songlessness of our slogans
On the promenade atop the water.

Pushing through the savanna’s grasslands
Their legs comfortably forward moving
Not as a joke anymore nor propelled

By surprise, they must have seen the distant
Trees turn into slithering reflections
Then turned to lumber back under the blue

In slightly less meandering patterns
Letting echo, “No. This is time enough.”