It is easy to miss the cloud reflections in the puddles

when the drones are perching on the telephone wires

and boats are exploding off the coast of Venezuela.

It's easy not to notice the flirtatiousness of the wind

when there is black smoke over Palestine

and everything's coated in oil.

It's easy to overlook the electricality in our bodies

when the billionaires and bank boys

are trying to replace our minds with chatbots.

Don't let them trick you into forgetting the moon,

or the dragon eggs incubating in your ribcage.

Don't let them trick you into exchanging your heartbeat

for an algorithm and a memecoin.

There are still birds in the skies of this world.

There are accordion angels playing in the ruins.

Though at times it may feel like a giraffe bleeding to death

in an abandoned Presbyterian church

in a forgotten factory town

with faded billboards and faded eyes,

beneath the click clack marching of the robot dogs,

there is still birdsong.

There is still birdsong.

Reading by Tim Foley.