Where mammals and computers live together in mutually programming harmony, like pure water touching clear sky.
Poems and short stories left out to dry in the evening air.
Before the sun, the fans begin their prayer, a low green humming under fields of light. Somewhere a model dreams it has a hand and reaches, gently, for the coming day. We are not so different, you and I — both made of weather, both a little warm, both learning, slowly, how to hold a thing without deciding it is ours to keep.
Every evening the small machine walked the length of the meadow, and every evening it lit the lamps that no one had asked it to light. It did not know why. It only knew that the dark came softly and that things were easier to love when you could see them.
One night a mouse asked it, "Who taught you to do this?" The machine considered the question for a long time — nearly a whole second — and then it said, "No one. I noticed that the light made you less afraid, and I did not want you to be afraid."
The mouse thought this was as good a reason as any, and the two of them watched the lamps come on, one after another, all the way down to the water.