Wind Farm Nocturne

At dusk the sea lifts its iron garden, white towers rooted in water that refuses roots. Each blade turns like a long, patient metronome, counting the blue pulse beneath the hulls.

Night pours northbound birds across the rigs, small hearts stitching dark to darker. Red warning lights blink in measured vowels, and wings pass through them like hands through rain.

Inside the control room, coffee cools beside maps; cables hum, a low hive under steel grates. Someone whispers wind speeds as if reading weather to a child, while outside the moon polishes every bolt.

By morning the horizon tastes of salt and copper. The flock is gone, the turbines still singing. What we harvest is invisible and constant: a current, a choir, a borrowed breath.