When I was young I wrote to see the thrill of words come out of me.

But now I want the quiet thrill of a book and a stream and a bird in a tree.

That bird can migrate at night by the stars, which humans will never do

even if we reach Mars.

And the book will forever look into the past

where the world before the internet was, but didn't last.

The bank of the stream may have trash that I'll clean,

and I'll tire myself out and collapse in a dream.