Night Shift at the Observatory

The dome unlatches with a throat of rust, and the sky rolls open like black silk embroidered with cold, patient needles. My breath turns to a small white moth.

Through the lens, Orion kneels in broken fire, three bright buttons on a coat of dark. Far below, the town blinks amber and half-asleep, as if dreaming it is still a harbor.

I write my mother’s name beside a comet, watch it drift beyond the graphite edge. Some losses move this way: silent, precise, a brightness you can measure but not keep.

Near dawn, frost feathers the railing, and Venus lifts like a coin from deep water. The east begins to hum in pale blue strings. I close the roof. The stars keep singing.