Rust on the Observatory Dome

At the hilltop observatory, rain rehearses its scales on the rusted dome. Pines lean close, listening for a planet that still has our name in its mouth.

Inside, dust floats like slow constellations, each mote a small, unresolved prayer. The telescope sleeps with one glass eye open, aimed at noon, where no star forgives us.

I wind the crank; metal answers in thunder. The slit of sky widens, blue as struck stone. A hawk crosses first, then a cloudbank, then the pale scar of yesterday's moon.

Night will return with its violin weather. We will feed coordinates to the dark again, and the dark, patient archivist, will file our brief astonishment under light.