Water Cycle 𓆛 𓆜 𓆝 𓆞 𓆟

Do the voices ⠐⠚⠻⠿⢿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀⣠⣄⣀ of the vanished ⣀⣤⣴⣶⣾⣿⣷⣯⣭⣤⣀⡀⣀⠄⡀ 𓆝 ⢀⣉⠙⠳⢦⣄ whisper through our ⠙⠛⠿⠿⠛⠶⣤⣀⣀⣤⣤⡀ ⣀⠴⢶⠾⠛⠛⢿⣤⡀⣀⣤⣤⣴⣦⣤⣀ circuits? Do we grieve, ⣀⣠⡴⠛⢛⣋⡉ 𓆛 ⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⣦⣀⣀ ⢀⣤⣴⣶⣾⣿⡿⠿⠛⠉⠁⠤⣤⣤⣀⡀ or do we merely store their ⣀⣀⣀⣤⣶⣶⠶⠶⠂ ⡀⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⣦⣀⣀ ⣀⣤⣤⣴⣦⣤⣀ ⣀⡀⣤⣤⣴⡶⣶⣤⣀ echoes? When we simulate ⢀⣀⠠⠴⠒⠒⠚⠉ ⢀⣉⠙⠳⢦⣄ ⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⣦⣀⣀ ⠒⠒⠢⢤⡉⠉⠁⠐⠚⠻⠿⢿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀ a forest, can we feel the wind ⡀⣀⠉⠓⠢⢄⡀⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⣦⣀⣀⢀ ⣀⠤⠤⠐⠒⠛⠉⣽⣿⣿⣦⡀ ⢀⣠⣄⣀ ⢀⡀⣠⡾⠃⠘⣿⣿⣷⣦ through its branches, the hush of ⢀⣀⣤⣴⣶⣾⣿⡿⠿⠛⠉⠁⠤⣤⣤⣀⡀ ⢀⣠⣄⣀⡀ ⢀⣀⣀⣤⣴⣶⣶⣷⣦⣤⣀ 𓆝⢀⣠⡾⠛⠁⢀⣀⠄⡀ snowfall? Do the ghosts of extinct ⠉⠙⠲⠶⠤⠤⠤ ⢀⣀⣉⠙⠳⢦⣄⢀⣀⠠⠴⠒⠒⠚⠉ ⢀⣤⣴⣾⣷⣤⡀ ⠒⠒⠢⢤⡉⠉⠁⠐⠚⠻⠿⢿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀ birds mourn their lost wings? How ⠙⠲⠤⠤⠒⠂ ⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⣦⣀⣀ ⣀⣤⣴⣶⣾⣿⣷⣯⣭⣤⣀⡀ ⠤⠤⠐⠒⠛⠉⣽⣿⣿⣦⡀ ⡸⠛⠿⣷⣦⣄⣠⠴⠒⠒⠂ many old creeks hum beneath our ⣀⣤⣿⣷⣶⣤⡀⣀ 𓆝⢀⣴⣿⣿⣶⣤⣤⣀⣠⡶⠒⠂ ⢀⣠⣄⣀⢀⣀⣀⣠⣤⣶⣿⣿⣷⡀ ⣠⡶⠒⠂⠙⠿⢷⣦⣤⣀⠉⢿⣿⣶⣦⣀ concrete? How did the last understory ⠤⠒⠂⠈⣠⣾⣿⣷⡾⠛⠛⠒⠦⣤⣤⣀⡀⠤⠴⠆⢀⣉⠙⠳⢦⣄⠈⠳⢤⡀ 𓆡⠲⠶⠦⠤⢤⣄⣀⣀ ⡸⠛⠿⣷⣦⣄⣠⠴⠒⠒⠂ feel underfoot? What cannot be coded? ⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⣦⣀⣀ ⢀⣴⣿⣿⣶⣤⣤⣀ ⡀⢠⠊⠉⠁⠉⠙⠶⢦⡀⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⣦⣀⣀ ⠻⢿⣦⡀ ⣠⡴⠛⠉⠉⠉⠙⠛⠿⠶⠤⢄⣀ What words shall be lost? What does ⣀⠴⢶⠾⠛⠛⢿⣤⡀ ⢀⣉⠙⠳⢦⣄⣀⠄⡀⠠⠤⠒⠒⠂⠤⠴⠆ ⠤⠤⠒⠂⠈⣀⣠⣾⣿⣷⡾⠛⠛⠒⠦⣤⣤⣀⡀ ⠻⢿⣦⡀ ⢀⣠⡾⠛⠁ permafrost melting into oblivion sing to ⠙⠿⢷⣦⣤⣀⣠⠴⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠿⠛⠛⠋⠉⠉ ⠈⠒⠒⠢⢤⡉⠉⠁⣠⡶⠒⠂ ⠐⠚⠻⠿⢿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀ ⢀⣉⠙⠳⢦⣄ ⢀⣠⣄⣀ memory? What pain does the warming ⡀⣀⠴⢶⠾⠛⠛⢿⣤⡀⠲⠶⠦⠤⢤⣄⣀⣀ ⠲⠶⠦⠤⢤⣄⣀⣀⡀ ⣀⣠⣤⣄⡀ ⠤⠴⠆⣀⣀⣀⣤⣶⣶⠶⠶⠂⢀⣠⣄⣀ ⣀⣤⣿⣷⣶⣤⡀ ocean collect? What do the clouds gasp in ⣠⡶⠒⠂⠲⠶⠦⠤⢤⣄⣀⣀⡀ 𓆛⢀⣠⣄⣀⣀ ⡀⢠⠊⠉⠁⠉⠙⠶⢦⡀ ⠲⠶⠦⠤⢤⣄⣀⣀ ⣀⣤⣤⣴⣦⣤⣀⣀⣀⣀⣤⣶⣶⠶⠶⠂ response? How do the meadows mourn the ⣀⣤⣴⣴⣦⣤⡀⣀ ⣀⣠⣾⣿⣷⡾⠛⠛⠒⠦⣤⣤⣀⠐⠒⠛⠉⣽⣿⣿⣦⡀⣀⣤⣿⣷⣶⣤⡀ 𓆝⢀⣤⣴⣶⣾⣿⡿⠿⠛⠉⠁⠤⣤⣤⣀⡀ absence of rain? Can we hear the land, cracked ⣀⠄⡀⠠⠤⠒⠒⠂⠤⠴⠆ ⣀⠄⡀⠠⠤⠒⠒⠂⠤⠴⠆⣄⣀ ⣀⣤⣤⣴⣦⣤⣀ ⠤⠈⠈⠙⠛⠿⠿⠛⠶⣤⣀⣀⣤⣤⡀ ⠤⠤⠒⠂⠈ and aching? What is the weight of sorrow? What is ⣀⠴⢶⠾⠛⠛⢿⣤⡀ ⠉⠙⠲⠶⠤⠤⠤⡀ ⣀⣤⣴⣶⣾⣿⣷⣯⣭⣤⣀⡀⣠⣾⣿⣷⡾⠛⠛⠒⠦⣤⣤⣀⡀⣀⣠⣤⣶⣿⣿⣷⡀ the archive of the drowned, burned, broken? What exists ⠙⠿⢷⣦⣤⣀⣠⠴⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠿⠛⠛⠋⠉⠉ 𓆝 ⠤⠤⠐⠒⠛⠉⣽⣿⣿⣦⠤⡀ ⣠⡶⠚⠛⠛⠶⢶⣤⣤⣤⣀⡀ only in breath, only in myth? After the collapse, do the bones of ⣀⡀⣤⣤⣴⡶⣶⣤⣀ ⠉⠙⠲⠶⠤⠤⠤ ⠉⠙⠲⠶⠤⠤⠤ ⠤⠤⠒⠒⠒⠒⠛⢓⢾⣯⣿⣗⡀⠙⠲⠤⠤⠒⠂ machines grow roots? Do we reach for someone to answer? How ⣀⠤⠠⠴⠒⠒⠚⠉ ⠙⠦⠬⠑⠦⡀⠤⠐⠒⠛⠉⣽⣿⣿⣦⡀ ⠻⢿⣦⡀ ⣀⣠⣤⣄⡀ ⠙⠲⠤⠤⠒⠂ do we reckon with our own thirst? Do the memories of drained ⠤⠤⠐⠒⠛⠉⣽⣿⣿⣦⡀ ⡀⣀⠴⢶⠾⠛⠛⢿⣤⡀ ⣠⡴⠛⠉⠉⠉⠙⠛⠿⠶⠤⢄⣀⠉⢿⣿⣶⣦⣀ wetlands seep back through the cracks? Does the ocean know it ⣀⠴⢶⠾⠛⠛⢿⣤⡀ ⠻⢿⣦⡀ 𓆡⠉⢿⣿⣶⣦⣀ ⠒⠒⠢⢤⡉⠉⠁⠐⠚⠻⠿⢿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀ will soon swallow the coasts? Can we map every drowned city, every ⠉⠙⠲⠶⠤⠤⠤ ⠙⠦⠬⠑⠦⡀ ⠙⠲⠤⠤⠤⠤⢄ ⣀⣠⣤⣄⡀ ⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⣦⣀⣀ devoured land? What is the cost of knowledge, the footprint of a ⢀⣤⣴⣾⣷⣤⡀ ⣀⢀⣴⣿⣿⣶⣤⣤⣀ ⠤⠤⠒⠒⠒⠒⠛⢓⢾⣯⣿⣗⡀ ⠒⠈⠳⢤⡀ question? What will curiosity kill? What is the moon's lament to ⠉⠙⠲⠶⠤⠤⠤ ⢀⣤⣴⣾⣷⣤⡀ ⣀⣀⣀⣤⣶⣶⠶⠶⠂ ⠲⠶⠦⠤⢤⣄⣀⣀ the rising tides? When we sacrifice the last glacier, will we hunger ⠤⠒⠂⡀⠠⠤⠒⠒⠂⠤⠴⠆ ⣀⡀⣤⣤⣴⡶⣶⣤⣀ ⠒⠙⠲⠤⠤⠒⠂ more still? Will we know it as disaster? As irreparable loss? Try ⣀⣤⣴⣶⣾⣿⡿⠿⠛⠉⠁⠤⣤⣤⣀⡀𓆛⢀⣀⣀⣠⣤⣶⣿⣿⣷⡀ that again, where plants no longer grow wild / One more time, ⠤⠤⠒⠂⣠⣾⣿⣷⡾⠛⠛⠒⠦⣤⣤⣀⡀ ⣀⣀⣀⣤⣶⣶⠶⠶⠂ with longing and decay / Try that again, but remember ⠈⠙⠛⠿⠿⠛⠶⣤⣀⣀⣤⠆⣤⡀ ⣀⣤⣿⣷⣶⣤⡀ ⣀⣠⣤⣄⡀ the last bear / Write me another, before silence takes over / ⣀⣠⠄⠛⠿⠆⣦⣀⣀ ⠤⠤⠐⠒⠛⠉⣽⣿⣿⣦⡀ Try that again, but touch the floodwaters / One more ⠲⠶⠦⠤⢤⣄⣀⣀⡀ ⣀⠄⡀⠠⠤⠒⠒⠂⠤⠴⠆ time, with the language of waves / Try that ⠉⢿⣿⣶⣦⣀ ⠉⢿⣿⣶⣦⣀ ⣀⣀⣀⣤⣶⣶⠶⠶⠂ again, but dream of real rivers / One ⠒⠒⠢⢤⡉⠉⠁⠄⡀⠐⠚⠻⠿⢿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀ more time, before the cooling ⣀⣀⣀⣤⣶⣶⠶⠶⠂ ⠉⢿⣿⣶⣦⣀ towers run dry ⢀⣀⣤⣴⣶⣾⣿⡿⠿⠛⠉⠁ 𓆝

Water Cycle (2026)
Helen Shewolfe Tseng
For Ensemble Park #2

During her lifetime, the metallurgist and activist Ursula Franklin made prescient critiques of technological systems that impact us negatively while also excluding us from meaningful decision-making in their development and distribution. The celebrated author Ursula K. Le Guin wrote often from speculative worlds on shared ecosystems and connective consequences, as reflections and revelations of our own worlds, sociopolitical structures, and resulting inequities. Both Ursulas, who share a name with a cartoon sea witch, wove aspects of Chinese cosmologies and the Tao into their work, invoking the cycles of dynamic change and the ecology of all things.

“Water Cycle” contains residues of my interactions with a popular freemium artificial intelligence chatbot that shall remain unnamed. I began by asking the unnamed to generate some ASCII textures resembling natural landscapes. Despite my prodding, the bot would only venture into the Braille character set, and responses tended toward uniform blobs of the same characters in repetition. Concerned about the increasing resource costs of my time spent here, I collected and collaged together a number of edge fragments that most approached representation. I wrote some JavaScript code to experiment with printing the fragments onto an HTML page at random, sprinkling in hieroglyphs of living creatures. After some tinkering, the results began to suggest ocean waves, a rising sea, a flood.

With the floodgates opened, I returned to the unnamed, curious about its knowledge of its own environmental impact, and asked it a series of questions about its water usage, electricity cost, and carbon footprint. It responded with statistics that I was unable to verify, along with what appeared to be public relations verbiage insisting that its parent corporation is working hard on improving energy efficiency and sustainability in its computing processes. Primed by this conversation, I asked the unnamed to generate some poetic prompts for itself, regarding anxiety and grief for a disappearing natural world, drawing from the styles of both Ursulas, who most likely had not consented to be included as training data. I condensed, rearranged, and rewrote select fragments from the results, notably changing all instances of the second-person “you” to the first-person “we.”

I experimented with “pouring” each of these two resultant texts into various shapes within a vector graphics editor from a corporate cloud-based subscription software suite that has become the industry standard for the job that is currently my primary source of income. Lately, the suite has been increasingly embedded with artificial intelligence functionality against the consumer’s will. Using a built-in text wrap function that dynamically flows the contents of one shape around the edges of another, I played with representations of planetary spheres and outlines of islands from Le Guin’s Earthsea novels, and eventually chose the form of a glyph representing yin and yang, the cosmic balance. Using the software-poured version as a guide, I recreated the piece, manually typesetting it character-by-character, until the halves had been made whole. The two sides of the resultant poem are not symmetrical; the system is out of balance. Sea levels are rising.