Brass Rain on the Observatory Roof

At dusk the observatory sweats copper and dust, its domes half moons cupped in both hands. Rain begins as pins on the tin roof, then turns to a language the gutters almost remember.

Below, the avenue opens like a wet violin, headlights bowing amber across the strings. A woman under a red umbrella pauses at the crossing, and the light around her gathers, then drifts away.

Inside, old lenses bloom with fingerprints and night. I breathe on the glass; a small weather appears, clouding Orion, erasing one bright shoulder, until my sleeve restores him to his cold inheritance.

By midnight the city is a basin of bells, each drop striking metal, stone, skin. What I cannot keep I hear more clearly: water, distance, and the slow turning of the sky.