Weather Station in April

At the edge of town the old weather station hums in sleep, its metal ribs holding pockets of last winter's light. Rain beads on the anemometer like rosary glass, and the wind counts itself with invisible fingers.

Dandelions break through the concrete in yellow sparks, bees map the cracked runway as if it were a continent. A fox slips past the locked control room at dawn, tail brushing rust from a door no forecast opens.

Inside, blank charts curl like pale waves on a shore, inked storms faded to the color of breath on mirrors. Through a broken pane, swifts stitch dark commas in air, rewriting the sky above abandoned instruments.

By evening the towers blush with wet copper and moss, puddles hold brief planets where gnats revolve and vanish. No siren, no bulletin, only grass tuning itself, and the whole station listening to rain become earth.