They sit at their computers,
Backs hunched over,
Fingers flying across the keyboards.
Their dead eyes look down,
Absorbed into the screen.
They don’t get up;
They don’t straighten their back;
They just sit there, typing.
Their fingers and their minds are the only things
Another might wonder what they’re doing.
Why are they just sitting there,
For hours, days
Jotting down notes on paper,
And occasionally cracking jokes?
The thing is,
They’re all over the world:
These fiery but quiet souls.
Some draw the blinds and hide,
Some live all out in the open and
Sleep on the streets,
But they’re everywhere.
Here’s what cannot be seen:
Whether they be poets or accountants,
The ones at the computer are
Retelling, recreating, redefining,
They are the birds on fire.