Highway / Windmill

 

                               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.

 

 

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