Mycelium in the Observatory

At the hill's shut observatory, domes keep a dull weathered shine, and rain threads the rusted slit where planets once entered by name.

Inside, the lens is clouded milk, but along its brass ring mushrooms flare, small amber ears listening to the slow speech of stone.

Night slides in through broken louvers; constellations scatter on puddled tile. Each cap lifts like a tiny umbrella for dust, for spores, for forgotten maps.

By dawn the room smells of cedar and earth. Light pools in the eyepiece like warm tea. What we aimed at distance now roots here: a sky learning to grow underground.