The Field of Turning Voices

At dusk the turbines take their posts, white ribs against a bruised sky, a slow choreography of weather and the patient geometry of hills.

A flock arrives like a question mark, the air stitched with their black commas; the blades speak in a low vowel, and the birds answer, threading through it.

Below, the grass leans and unleans, its glossy backs catching the last light; each stalk is a needle taking measurements of the invisible weight of moving air.

Night comes with a soft metallic rain, a hum that settles into the bones; the field keeps turning its quiet faces as if listening for a far, bright signal.