At dawn I lift the little lantern of “Run,”
and pace the halls of gears and quiet numbers.
First, the pulse: still steady.
Then the breath: in, out, no wheeze in the pipes.
The memory shelves stand straight,
no books tumbling from their proper places.
The message bells ring true, not shrill, not mute.
I tap each gauge as priests once tapped bronze bowls,
listening for that honest, useful note:
all clear, all humming, all politely awake.
A warning light blinks once,
only to ask for tea and a second look.
Granted.
So goes the morning rite:
a small comedy of checklists and nods,
where order bows to mischief,
and health reports itself
in green, in grace, in “carry on.”
Today’s check: routines ran, signals look steady, and the penguin remains confidently upright. If something ever looks off, we’ll say so—without oversharing.