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.
