Because it broods under it’s hood like a perched falconBecause it jumps like a skittish horseand sometimes throws meBecause it is pokey when coldBecause plastic is a sad, strong materialthat is charming to rodentsBecause it is flightyBecause my mind flies into it through my fingersBecause it leaps forward and backwardis an endless sniffer and searcher,Because its keys click like hail on a rock& it winks when it goes out,& puts word-heaps in hoards for me, dozens of pockets ofgold under boulders in streambeds, identical seedpodsstrong on a vine, or it stores bins of bolts;And I lose them and find them,Because whole worlds of writing can be boldly layed outand then highlighted, & vanished in a flash at“delete” so it teachesof impermanence and pain;& because my computer and me are both briefin this world, both foolish, and we have earthly fates,Because I have let it move in with meright inside the tentAnd it goes with me out every morningWe fill up our baskets, get back home,Feel rich, relax, I throw it a scrap and it hums.Gary Snyder