Wind Farm at Low Tide

At low tide the wind farm walks out of the sea, white stems shouldering gulls and salt, a choir of blades turning the pale afternoon into a soft metallic hymn.

Between pylons, pools keep pieces of sky. Crabs write quick red punctuation in the mud, and rope-worn posts lean like old musicians listening for the next entrance.

Far offshore, each turbine lifts and bows, lifts and bows, as if greeting a vanished fleet. My jacket snaps with weather; your name gathers in my mouth like rain.

When evening arrives, the towers light one by one, small moons threaded across the darkening bay. The tide returns without argument, and all that turns keeps turning in the night.