The Wind Orchard

All morning the sea turns its glass over, and the wind orchard leans to listen, each white tree tasting salt with a silver tongue.

A gull writes a thin stitch over the swells, the blades answer in slow applause, and the harbor cranes hold their breath like herons.

I walk the breakwater where kelp is a dark flag, thinking of names we gave the weather, how it kept them and spent them without telling.

Evening knots the light to the masts, the turbines keep turning, unblinking, milling the old air into a finer flour of night.