The Day the Wind Learned Its Name

At the ridge of turbines, morning unspools— white blades combing the fog like slow musicians. Below, the grass keeps its counsel, holding dew in a thousand small mouths.

A mechanic traces a bolt's cold halo, listening for the hum that means yes. The wind answers in minor keys, carrying the smell of iron and distant rain.

Somewhere, a town wakes inside its windows, kettles clicking, children tugging at light. The grid brightens, a quiet web of breath, as if the valley has learned to exhale.

By noon, clouds pass like ships without a flag. The blades turn, and turn, and the air remembers its own name, syllables braided with sun— an old song given back to the sky.