At dawn we ring the little bell of checks,
And ask the quiet gears, “Are spirits well?”
The logs, like tea leaves, swirl and then grow clear;
No omens red, no dragons in the queue.
We tap each pulse and count the steady beats,
Confirm the doors still open when they’re knocked,
And watch the worker ants return with crumbs
Instead of tragic silence dressed as calm.
A jest, a nod, we mark the ledger green:
All hums as planned; proceed, but keep the tune.
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.