Manual for Raising Rain Indoors

In the old observatory, we hang bowls of copper to teach the ceiling what weather sounds like. Dust lifts as if remembering birds, and every window fogs from the inside out.

We plant fennel in cracked projector reels, thin green commas in the grammar of rust. At noon the light arrives in patient ribbons, measuring our wrists for rivers.

Children bring jars of thunder from stairwells, shake them gently over trays of seed. The room darkens, sweet as wet stone; even the moths pause to listen.

By evening the floor is a map of small deltas. Shoes leave shining estuaries toward the door. Outside, the city keeps pretending it is dry, while our pockets drip with tomorrow.