Second Heart at the Wind Farm

At dawn the wind farm wakes like a field of herons, white necks turning toward a rumor of light. Between towers, fog drifts in blue wool, and the river keeps a pocketful of coins from the moon.

I walk the maintenance road where thistles braid the fence, each blade humming with yesterday's voltage. A hawk hangs still above the spinning choir, its shadow sliding over warning paint and wild mint.

By noon, heat lifts the tar in soft black breaths; bolts glitter like salt on a butcher's table. In my hard hat I hear old storms rehearsing, drums of rain stored inside steel.

At dusk the turbines slow, listening. Night pours ink into every rotating cup. The city lights bloom beyond the hills like plankton, and the dark turns, patient as a second heart.