The typewriter is an Olivetti Underwood 21 from 1966.

I celebrate my fur, and sing my teeth,
My forelegs arm’d for digging, my ears, my tail,
Every atom in my blood, form’d for meteorological prognostication.

Out of the dim hole I arise,
The snow on the ground, black frock-coats and top hats erupting like fungi from the earth.
I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me,
I buoy you up with weather, I sing of sun and shadows,
Of sun and shadows bursting with climatology.

A call in the midst of the crowd,
A voice from beneath a top hat,
An announcement, a proclamation.
It is time to explain myself.

The ground lies there before me, the white snow waiting to receive my seal,
I sound my barbaric yawp and bite the guy in the top hat.
Six more weeks of winter.