The Observatory Where Wind Learns to Read

The hill keeps its old dome like a closed eyelid, metal ribs freckled with lichen and light. Inside, dust swirls, a slow alphabet.

When storms arrive, they speak in long pages, the kind that bend but never tear. The wind noses each sentence, learning its letters.

We bring our ears to the cracked glass, listen for weather making meaning. Some nights the clouds turn the lamps on for us.

By morning, the floor is scripted with leaves, a ledger of gusts and quiet decisions. We sweep nothing away and call it reading.