Mos Eisley architecture (brown, beige, brick)
squats just above the dirt and gravel lots.
Some water lawns, insouciant of waste.
Jets wet pedestrians as pass them by.
The street looks painted by De Chirico
in clear light of the Valley of the Sun.
Ronald McDonald sits upon a bench.
The swallow-swooped and dragonfly-patrolled
soft capillaries in Tempe Canal
are silken static on a laptop screen.
A hummingbird investigates one's bike,
which looks like sunset or orange trumpet blooms.
These spring forth from the fence through which they thrust
impetuously outward to invite
the bees and hummingbirds to come on in.
A bee with brown bands alternate with tan
investigates one thoroughly, as though
the fellow of that species that one met
perhaps one half a mile away had sent
her mate a text and triggered their whole hive,
smart as a five year old and curious,
to check out anything detected twice
and fill out a report in triplicate.
She lingered near one's bike until one rolled
along the satin band amid a crunch of wheels
and truck track tread and trample grooves in dirt
and some relief to be thus rid of her.
Albeit she is worth the filling out
of a report in triplicate in blank
verse that outlasts and lofts above the fret
she caused one's spirits momentarily.
They'd think like a large language module does.
The numeration that AI performs
of human languages reminds one hives
can think through pheromonal interchange
and opening and closing logic gates.
A similar intelligence rides steeds
out of humanity in general, as
the noosphere of Vernadsky, De Chardin
astride the bucket fountain of our Lord.
A thing may be a plot, of course it may;
and also it may be a Chinese room
totalitarian hysterical
stampede. The rulers and the ruled are ruled.
One sings now of His creatures' structuring
their meaning in an analogic form
with pantomime and otherwise so saying
heart and thence their mind abundantly;
thus see the world around alive in speech
by way of pheromonal, gestural,
and other conduits, not understood
as yet but known for information-rich.
The whale song as the forest speaks its mind;
the more so as it senses someone knows
to watch out for the waggle dance of bug
& beast, logs into internets of bird
song, orisons and gratefulness at dusks;
as rhizomes crackle with the evening news;
as volatile organic compounds zip
between the gossips known as plants & trees;
as trance remixes of the biosphere
weave melodies into our tapestries
with birds and beasts
and Everyman and God.
The spirits speak in languages of fire
and water differently with every state.
We're simultaneous with flesh and blood.
A bulging creamy gibbous swiftly sinks
down towards the silhouettes of roofs & palms.
