Weather Map for a Sleeping City

In the decommissioned observatory, ferns have learned the language of dust. Each frond lifts a green antenna to catch the slow static of morning.

Light enters in strips, like cello strings, and moths tune themselves against it. On the cracked dome, rainwater keeps a blurred atlas of vanished storms.

I open a notebook; the pages inhale, smelling of copper, wet stone, and ink. Outside, rooftops steam like quiet horses, their breath rising into blue arithmetic.

No prophecy arrives, only this: seeds splitting softly in forgotten trays, the city turning its heavy key of noise, and one clear bird-note threading the gears.