The Observatory in Spring Melt

At the hilltop observatory, snow loosens from the dome in bright, patient scales. Water threads the rusted railings, each drop carrying a small inverted sky.

Inside, the telescope sleeps under canvas, smelling of iron, dust, and old thunder. Moss writes green cursive along the floor cracks; light pools there like coins no one spends.

A fox crosses the parking lot at dusk, tail lit amber by the west. It pauses where constellations once were plotted and listens to meltwater tuning the gutters.

By midnight the hill is all breathing earth. Stars return, shy but innumerable, and the open dome turns slowly, slowly, as if the building itself remembers how to pray.