Where the Telescope Slept

At the hill's cracked crown, the observatory waits, its dome half-open like a mollusk listening to rain. Grass climbs the steps in green, deliberate syllables, and swallows stitch low arcs through the rusted mouth of noon.

Inside, the lens is furred with dust and yellow light. Spider silk trembles where constellations once were named. A field mouse drags a seed across the star chart, small as a thought crossing the forehead of time.

By evening, fog arrives on the hooves of cattle, filling the chamber with a patient, silver breath. The broken gears remember how to turn in silence; even metal can dream of orbit after use.

When night finally opens its dark book above the hill, the dome does not move, yet something in it lifts. Moonlight pools in the glass like water in a well, and the whole ruin listens upward, unashamed.