Greenhouse for the Cloud

In January the old tomato house hums blue, racks of servers where vines once climbed wire. Condensation beads on the glass like patient commas, outside, crows stitch black thread through frost.

Fans turn the air into a small weather system, warm gusts smelling of dust and ozone. A technician walks the aisle with a flashlight, his breath and the status LEDs blinking in counterpoint.

At noon, sun lays pale coins on each panel, and heat rises as if from invisible soil. Somewhere, families send photos, doctors pull scans, a million distant hands pass through this former field.

By evening the panes hold the first stars. The building keeps speaking in steady vowels. Under frozen furrows, roots remember rain, above them, light keeps flowering without petals.