Turbines at First Light

Before sunrise, the sea keeps its iron breath, rows of turbines stand like herons made of weather, their blades sip darkness from the last blue hour, salt lifting in thin choirs over the swells.

Inside the nacelles, warm circuits hum like bees, maintenance lamps swing small moons across the decks, a gull rides the wake of a service boat, white script stitched briefly on black water.

Then east opens: copper, apricot, milk, each turning rotor combs wind into current, substations blink awake beyond the horizon, and cables carry day inland under foam.

By noon, nobody on shore can hear this music, only kettles clicking on in distant kitchens, only trains exhaling at suburban platforms, all fed by these slow arms threshing the sky.