Asphalt and salt, the tires
burning in the heat. The crops
are dying. Brittle limbs, the yellow tinge, still
reaching upwards. And then
the windmills—their large, mechanical
frames, the hooked fingers, spinning
in the slowest circles. The power. And yet
there is weakness, too—those few that stand
motionless. Their stillness suggests something about
life ending, their white bodies
scorched against the sky. I hold your hand—
disconcerted
and small.