At the Wind Farm Before Dawn

The turbines wait like herons in the dark, long-necked, listening to a field of sleeping barley. My breath fogs the steel rail, and the east is only a rumor of tin.

When the first gust arrives, each blade takes its note, a low violin turning through cold air. Red beacons fade one by one, as if night is unbuttoning its coat.

Below, the town lights blink out in clusters; bakery ovens wake, buses clear their throats. Power runs downhill through buried cables, quiet as water finding every root.

By sunrise the hills are full of moving shadows, and larks stitch silver threads above the nacelles. I sign my name in grease on the maintenance log and walk home with wind still ringing in my wrists.