Wind Farm at Low Tide

At low tide the wind farm stands on long iron shins, salt peeling in ribbons from each white shoulder. Gulls loop through the blades as if reading braille, their cries bright nails tapped into the morning.

From the mudflats, children collect shards of green glass, pocketing small storms the sea has forgotten. Far out, each tower turns with cathedral patience, choosing the invisible and making it sing.

Cables sleep beneath eelgrass, dark and deliberate, carrying weather inland like a pulse under skin. Kitchen lights wake in towns we cannot see from here, kettles breathing cloud into narrow winter rooms.

By noon the tide returns, erasing our footprints first, then the rusted ladder, then the patient crabs. Only the turbines remain, writing circles in air, a script of clean thunder no eye can fully keep.