Field Notes from a Wind Farm at Dusk

At evening the turbines turn like pale herons, their long necks listening over winter wheat. Light slides down each blade in quiet intervals, a metronome laid across the county.

Trucks on the highway pass as brief comets, red taillights stitching the horizon shut. Coyotes answer from drainage ditches, thin silver voices through the frost.

Inside the substation, transformers hum as if a hive were hidden in steel. The town's porches bloom one by one, warm squares opening in the cold.

I stand where cut hay and ozone mingle, watching dark arrive in measured revolutions. Tomorrow's sun is already being gathered, stored in the turning grammar of air.