what of small brown birds
in leafless bushes watching
the winter drift past cloudfully

they are technology, you say,
they are the connection between
and through and in the air

your’e a liar, they’re birds,
they’re brown, they’re small,
they’re watching the winter
and chirping at me

no, you say, they are
technological marvels,
natural cellphones relaying
information from the summer
to this dead dull february morning

you’re wrong, I say,
i don’t know much about
technologicality, but I know
it is not that chickadee