At the Seed Vault in Late Winter

Night leans against the mountain like cold iron. Inside, rows of sleep sealed in foil sachets wait with the patience of stones under snow, each kernel a shut eye remembering summer.

The generator hums a low northern hymn; our breath makes brief ghosts over the labels. Barley from a valley erased by fire, rice that once listened to monsoon drums.

Outside, thawwater writes silver cursive down the concrete throat of the entrance. A fox crosses the floodlit apron, pauses, as if reading the future through glass.

When dawn opens, pale as split birch, we inventory names older than borders. In every packet, a field not yet spoken, green grammar waiting for a tongue of rain.