After Rain at the Server Farm

At dawn the cooling towers exhale cloud-milk over fields of cables. Rainwater beads on satellite dishes like coins on closed eyes. Forklifts sleep beside pallets of glass, their yellow backs dim with mist. From the fence, a fox watches the red LEDs blink like winter berries.

Inside, aisles of metal hum one long vowel. Fans turn the dark into weather; blue light drifts across concrete. A technician lifts a panel and dust rises, soft as chapel incense. Somewhere a backup finishes, and silence deepens instead of ending.

By noon the sun lays copper on every conduit. Puddles hold the sky and a map of passing geese. Packets cross oceans while clover leans through the gravel cracks. Even the warning signs look tender in this brightness.

Evening gathers the racks into a patient constellation. Night staff arrive with thermoses, keys, and quiet jokes. Beyond the gate, wheat keeps its slow green argument with wind. The whole machine listens, and keeps listening, through the dark.