Grid of Migrating Light

At first light, the wind farm stands like a choir waist-deep in the Atlantic, each mast humming with salt and iron, with gull-shadow and spray; the horizon stitches silver thread through fog.

A flock of geese tilts south, reading the blades as if they were giant hands turning pages; their calls fall warm into the cold machinery, brief embers crossing a field of steel.

Below, cables carry weather inland, dark rivers under miles of patient water; in kitchens, kettles wake, lamps bloom, and no one tastes the brine in the current.

By noon the towers vanish into glare, yet the sea keeps their metronome in secret. Evening returns the birds, and the turning, and the long, clean breath we borrow from wind.