Because it broods under its hood like a perched falcon,

Because it jumps like a skittish horse and sometimes throws me,

Because it is poky when cold,

Because plastic is a sad, strong material that is charming to rodents,

Because it is flighty, 

Because my mind flies into it through my fingers,

Because it leaps forward and backward, is an endless sniffer and searcher,

Because its keys click like hail on a boulder,

And it winks when it goes out,

And puts word-heaps into hoards for me, dozens of pockets of gold under 
             boulders 

in streambeds, identical seedpods strong on a vine, or it stores bins of bolts;

And I lose them and find them again,

Because whole worlds of writing can be boldly layed out and then highlighted 
              and vanish in a flash at “delete," 
    
so it teaches of impermanence and pain;
And because my computer and me are both brief in this world,
 
both foolish, and we have earthly fates,

Because I have let it move in with me right in the tent,

And it goes with me out every morning;

We fill up our baskets, get back home,

Feel rich, relax, 
     
I throw it a scrap and it hums.