Wind Farm at Low Tide

At low tide the seabed lifts its wet shoulders, and towers stand knee-deep in a mirror of gulls. Cables hum under sand like buried cello strings, pulling a thin blue current toward sleeping streets.

Morning arrives in sheets of tin-colored rain; cranes on the horizon bow and rise, patient metronomes. A child in a yellow coat counts the turning blades as if naming slow planets into being.

Salt dries on the railings, bright as ground glass. From the substation, windows glow with quiet weather. Inside, engineers pass coffee like a small fire, while maps bloom with arrows and migrating storms.

By night the turbines blink red into black water, an alphabet for ships, for clouds, for whales below. The city exhales through kettles, trains, hospital lamps, and the tide returns, carrying the dark back out.