Moss in the Observatory

The hill kept a dome of rusted glass, and inside it, rain rehearsed the stars on a brass floor gone green at the edges, like old coins learning the language of leaves.

A fern uncurled where a telescope slept; its fronds were small hands feeling for light. Dust rose in choirs when the wind entered, and every mote rang once, then vanished.

I stood where astronomers once stood, palms on the rail, listening to weather. Clouds crossed the opening like slow animals, and noon dimmed into a patient, silver dusk.

Nothing was lost, only translated: iron into lichen, numbers into rain, the sky into water, the water into root, and my breath into that green, listening hush.