Richard Brautigan writes longingly of

cybernetic fields, but I
want the real thing, and
lakes full of frogs, and diving
mergansers, and around my fire, a
whiskey-jack waiting for dropped
raisins and spilled coffee grounds.
I want to say, sir, come
sleep in my tent and dream
this hard dream of dirt and moss.
forget about machines of loving grace.
Ask for more trees.
Ask for water of
mercy.