Wind Farm at Low Tide

At low tide, the wind farm stands in wet light, white towers rooted past the mudflats where gulls stitch silver thread through brine, and the sea keeps its breath in shallow ribs.

Each blade turns like a slow page in a hymn, reading weather from the throat of morning. Salt climbs the steel in invisible vines; distance hums inside the pylons.

On the dike, fishermen wait with thermos hands, their lines crossing the wake of turbines. Engines in the harbor answer in minor keys, metal and water learning one language.

When the tide returns, it lifts the whole scene until foundations disappear under green glass. Only the rotating crowns remain, patient, harvesting sky from the edge of the world.