Wind Farm Cantata

At dawn the sea wears a coat of hammered tin. Turbines rise from it, pale herons fixed on one leg. Their blades gather the cold like long white violins. Salt lifts in the air, a bright metallic breath.

Far inland, kettles click on in apartment kitchens. The grid wakes slowly, nerve by nerve, window by window. Invisible current travels under fields of sleeping wheat. Somewhere, a child’s lamp blooms like a small moon.

I stand on the pier where ropes knock their patient drums. Gulls write rough calligraphy across the wind. Each turning rotor answers with a low, cathedral hum. Morning enters the body as if through open strings.

Nothing burns here but light on water. The day is powered by weather, by distance, by listening. Even the horizon seems to lean closer, attentive. The future arrives quietly, and keeps turning.