Moss in the Server Room

At midnight the racks hum like beehives in winter, blue LEDs bead the dark with patient weather, air handlers comb the aisle with metallic wind, and somewhere a drip begins counting in green.

By morning a seam in the concrete has opened, a thin republic of moss lifts its velvet flags, cooling fans kneel and spin their small hurricanes, dust learns the grammar of rain.

Technicians pause with coffee and static in their sleeves, watching soft chlorophyll write over serial numbers, as if the earth were annotating our backups, as if silence had roots and was not empty.

All day the servers keep their bright, obedient thunder, all day the moss keeps drinking light by crumbs, until the room smells briefly of river stones, and every algorithm feels older, and kinder.