Top of the Minute

In a building in Jülich a battery no one visits checks that it is ready.

It does this every minute, on the minute: a short pull of current, a clearing of the throat.

So do the ones in Irish server halls. So does a smart oven, proving it can still bake.

They were all handed the time by the same exact clock.

So once a minute, across the continent, the hum sags by a hair, three thousandths of a hertz, and turbines in the north take it in their bearings.

Nobody meant it. Each was only making sure.

The engineers' fix is plain. Let each one check when it gets round to it. Let it be a little late.