At the Wind Farm

At dawn the offshore turbines hum like a choir of glass, each blade turning a page in the sky's salt-blue book, and our small service boat drifts between pillars of light, its wake unspooling silver thread for gulls to stitch.

Inside my headset, weather maps bloom and collapse, storm cells darken over the far continental shelf, while below us the cod move like punctuation marks, pausing, then vanishing into green syntax.

By noon the towers catch a hard white noon and sing, not loud, more like a cello string held in the teeth, a note that enters the ribs and steadies the pulse, as if the sea itself had learned to breathe in meter.

When evening tilts copper across the nacelles, we log our numbers, grease on our knuckles, sun in our eyes, and head for harbor carrying tomorrow's electricity the way orchards carry August: invisible, inevitable.