A lab, not a factory.

We're a lab in the old sense of the word: a workshop with the lights on late, a bench covered in half-finished ideas, and nobody around to tell us which ones are commercially sensible.

Some of what we build comes out of a real need. Some of it comes out of pure curiosity about how something works. Both are legitimate reasons to start, and we've learned not to be precious about the difference: the strange side project has a habit of turning into the good one.

Software is where a lot of our work lands, but the software was never the point. The question was. Sometimes the answer is an app. Sometimes it's a circuit, an enclosure, a tool, or a thing that only makes sense once it's sitting on a desk. We'd rather stay a lab than settle into being any one kind of shop.

What ties it together is care. Whatever the medium, we build it by hand, sweat the first thirty seconds of using it, and keep what we ship maintained rather than piling up abandoned listings.

The sunbird is small, bright, and specific. It doesn't try to be every bird. That felt like the right thing to aim at: a handful of things, each one clearly itself, made well enough to earn its keep.

The mark is a single stroke, the arc of a wing folding back, with one terracotta seed at the beak. One gesture, one dot. It's the whole company in a line.