Low Tide at the Wind Farm

By morning the sea has stepped back and left its cold handwriting on the flats, eelgrass combed in the shine, small shells opening like lost mouths.

The turbines stand out there with their white shoulders turning, slow as thought, slow as mills grinding a harvest no hand can gather.

Between their pillars, tide pools keep the sky, broken into coins of blue and tin. A gull walks through them as if searching a room after the music ends.

Then wind arrives, invisible and absolute, lifting salt against my face, and the whole coast begins to sing through metal, through water, through the emptied bones of light.