machines of metal and ceramic
pass overhead, shining their secret light
that I cannot see. another machine
of polymer and silicon must translate these
god-like mysteries:

sometimes it is a voice that I love,
secure and smooth, gentle words
wrapped in the hush of snowdrifts.

sometimes the voice is overpowered
by the anger of a nighttime sandstorm;
each grain's movement coded in binary vectors,
separately invisible, but collectively blotting out
the Milky Way like a wave of ink falling across the sky.