Conservatory in the Empty Pool

At the old municipal pool, rain keeps the blue tiles lit from below. Fern spores settle where lane numbers once floated. A bicycle frame leans at the deep end, silver with moss. Under cracked diving boards, snails polish the concrete to moonlight.

By noon the glass roof trembles with swallows. Their wings cut brief commas through the warm chlorophyll air. Tomato vines climb the lifeguard chair in patient spirals. Water remains only as breath on the panes.

When wind arrives, it plays the empty gutters like flutes. Seedlings shiver in rows, listening. Rust flakes down like cinnamon on black soil. Someone left a whistle; it fills and empties with light.

At dusk, neighbors carry basil home in paper bags. The pool ladder rises from leaves instead of water. Night gathers in the lanes, soft and green. Even the concrete remembers how to hold a tide.