I used to watch fishing drones cutting their angular wakes through the sun glitter from the maintenance balcony of Turbine Three. They were tiny from up there in the wind; so small that I could imagine they were dragons or swans. I would dangle my feet into space, rest my forehead against the cool plastic railing and cast out my senses like a net, trawling magic. The salty scent of the wind; the shimmering, diamond scattered sea; the turbine blades cleaving the air with a sound like the breath of a giant.

As I got older, though, and had to cast my net wider and wider to draw it back with an ever dwindling catch, visits to my place in the clouds became less frequent. I would sit on the opposite side of the tower, my back to the mindless boats and merciless sea, eventually abandoning the balcony, and my childhood, altogether. I thought that magic was for little girls in high places.

Might I find it again, though, out here in the black?