The Observatory Left Open

At dusk the observatory waits like a shelled fruit, its dome unlatched to the weather's patient fingers. Moss climbs the stair rail, soft as a thought that has learned how to keep breathing.

Inside, dust settles in constellations on the floor. The brass telescope turns its blind eye to the hill, while a moth threads the rafters as if reading a map written in candle smoke.

Beyond the cracked glass, the city blinks on and off, each window a small hearth, each siren a silver seam. Wind combs the cedar boughs until they whisper the old names of rain, of distance, of returning.

I stand where astronomers once held their breath and feel the dark lay its cool palm over my shoulder. Above me, the first star opens without hurry, and the whole ruin listens, bright with surrender.