Wind Farm, Former Harbor

At first light the turbines lift their white shoulders from a sea that once held freighters and oil. Gulls write broken calligraphy in the spray, and the rusted piers breathe salt like old harmoniums.

Each blade turns slow as a monk's page, gathering weather, rumor, and distant thunder. Below, mussels stitch black seams along the pylons; the tide taps metal with patient knuckles.

On the service boat, a mechanic opens a lunch tin, steam rising with garlic, diesel, and fennel. He says the wind has moods like livestock, and points to a bank of cloud chewing the sun.

By noon the grid hums inland through buried cables; apartments flicker awake, kettles begin to sing. Out here the water keeps swallowing old names, while the towers keep combing light into tomorrow.