At the Edge of the Wind Farm

On the plateau, turbines turn like slow white herons, their necks bent into weather no one can see. Morning unbuttons frost from the fence wire, and the whole field hums in a key below speech.

Truck headlights pass, brief rivers across gravel. A fox slips between shadows of the blades, carrying dusk in its tail though day is widening, carrying the old dark into the clean noise.

Inside the control room, screens bloom with weather maps; blue fronts curl like ink dropped in water. Someone lifts a mug and listens for imbalance, for the single off-note hidden in the choir.

By noon the valley is stitched with moving light. Power goes outward through buried veins, to kettles, elevators, hospital monitors, to one child asleep with wind in her pulse.