The Dance of the Cranes 
(for Frederick Delse) 

 
Folding 
His legs like an 
origami crane (except 
these stilts sport hair), 
He hunches over the black 
monitor, his lake, 
as the still-life flock of cranes 
emerges from water, unheralded. 
 
"This is cool; 
the script is recursive. 
It repeats an expansion, 
each time the data mass reducing,"
His arms in search 
of diagrammatic papers 
beat irregularly. 
 
They fold and unfold before 
him -- these white messengers -- 
only a thousand required for 
completion; 
translating into 0's and 1's, 
they emerge under convicted 
keystrokes,  
only to vanish beneath deletions' 
ripples. 
 
"Look, it's waiting longer 
than usual; 
it must be compiling right now,"
He leans forward anticipating, 
his fingers twined, 
praying, for the dance of cranes 
(their performance executed in the CPU) 
to resolve syntax-errorless. 
 
The finishing prompt, ">"
signals the synchronization and 
the correct thousand of the cranes. 
 
"Yes!"
twelve hours of gliding 
black waters 
come to momentary 
stillness.

 
 
        --jennifer crystal chien