Gridsong at Dawn

At dawn the wind farm wakes in a field of frost, each turbine turning like a librarian’s hand separating thin pages of sky, calling light out of the sleeping wires.

Geese stitch black arrows over the nacelles, their cries tin-bright, hammered on cold air. Below, puddles keep small duplicate heavens where fence posts bloom into trembling reeds.

Inside the substation, coils hum low, a throat-song under the metal ribs. I lay my palm on the cabinet door and feel distant kitchens begin to warm.

By noon the blades are white commas in blue, pausing, returning, pausing again. Power goes out quietly as pollen, an invisible weather entering every room.