At the Wind Farm Before Dawn

The hill wears a crown of slow white arms, turning sleep into a low electric hymn. Frost keeps its breath on every fence wire, and the fields listen with silver ears.

I walk the service road where puddles hold broken moons and warning lights. Each turbine writes the same wide circle across the dark, then erases it.

Far off, a tractor coughs once and goes quiet; the village windows stay folded like hands. Above me, the blades comb weather from the sky, bringing tomorrow down in clean cold strands.

When morning lifts, nothing dramatic happens: just crows, wet grass, a kettle starting somewhere. Yet the whole plain hums as if a hidden choir has learned the shape of wind and refuses to stop.