At dawn I tap the temple of the screen,
And ask the little lights, “Are spirits well?”
One green eye blinks; another clears its throat;
A fan hums like a monk who skipped his tea.
I pace through rites: the pulse, the queue, the clock,
The backups tucked in blankets, warm and whole,
The alerts asleep, not plotting opera,
The graphs behaving, neither cliff nor cloud.
At last the dashboard bows and says, “All calm.”
I nod, write “healthy,” and pretend I’m wise.
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.