Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

I used to think the Cloud was in the sky, Something invisible, subtle, aloft: We sent things up to it, or pulled things down On silken ribbons, on backwards lightning zaps. Our photographs, our songs, our avatars Floated with rainbows, sunbeams, snowflakes, rain. Thoughts crossed mid-air, and messages, all soft And winking, in the night, like falling stars.   I know now it’s a box, and acres wide, A building, stories high. A parking lot Besets it with baked asphalt on each side. Within, whir tall machines, grey, running hot. The Cloud is windowless. It squats on soil Now shut to bees and clover, guzzling oil.