The Greenhouse of Static

At the hill's crown, the old observatory breathes in rust. Night pools in the cracked dome like ink in a thumbprint. Vines climb the rails where constellations used to turn, leaf after leaf translating silence into weather.

Inside, a radio dish sleeps under rainwater, its bowl cupping moons of gnats and drifting pollen. When wind moves through the shattered louvers, the room fills with a choir of wires and glass.

I place my ear to the console's cold alphabet, buttons dulled to pebbles by vanished hands. Somewhere beyond cloud, stars keep striking matches, and each faint flare arrives as a delayed confession.

By dawn, moss has brightened the steps to emerald. The dome, half-open, resembles a seed split wide. What once listened for distant fire now grows it: green light, patient as breath, in every seam.