When the Observatory Sleeps

The hill keeps its old brass eye closed, a dome cupping darkness like a cooled ember. Owls stitch the air with soft needles; the town below hums in its drawers of light.

Inside, dust gathers like pale snowfall on consoles, constellations still mapped on paper that smells of cedar. A lone chair faces the voided telescope, as if waiting for a visitor made of starlight.

In the seed vault beneath, names sleep in tin packets— thyme, rye, and a wildflower called loneliness. Rain taps the roof with patient fingertips, teaching the night to remember green.

Somewhere a satellite drifts, half-blind, counting the planet by its faint exhale. The sky turns its pages without sound, and the hill keeps watch over what could return.