He sat beside the window
Of the bedroom of his love,
Watching juncos fight for seeds
Outside, where unseen actions
Of unknown persons made loud
Noises he interpreted.
Ah, meaning, ghost of the world.
Information is inert,
However well it evolves.
But look at those hungry birds,
Complete, well-honed instructions
In every hungry cell.
They're not inert, not burning
Down smoothly to wasted ends.
There is a pattern that wants,
That demands, that makes something
That wastes a lot but makes some
More. More, more, more. Then it dies.
Anything else moves around,
Transforms as it must, no waste
Or all waste, he guessed. Sun set.