Manual for Listening to Glass Fields

At the edge of the plateau the turbines turn like pages translated into air, white ribs of some slow animal discovering how to breathe again.

Below, the town is a bowl of amber light, and the roads are thin veins cooling on the map; I walk among seed husks and mica, each step a small apology to dust.

The wind keeps a library in the fields, cataloging a child's laugh, a rusted gate, the long vowel of geese crossing and a forgotten radio on a porch.

When night arrives, the blades learn music; their shadows comb the wheat and then the dark, and in the hush between one turn and the next I hear my name, and answer with silence.