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The spindles whirr to a hum
Plying their precision patter.
The little readers clack back and forth
Tirelessly across the platter.

Presently, more come awake
Though it is always dark
And hurry to their self-same task
Directed by a spark.

Impulse and relay concerted along
In this cavern of haphazard tune
Makes me pause and listen to the hum
Of each singer in her cocoon.

The world itself orchestrates
This concert it cannot hear.
But click by click it perceives
Another harmony in the ear.

For each in his own language
Can understand the song
Wrought by my little readers
As they dance and skip along.

©2000 Carl Pecinovsky