The wind machines

Afield they stand
these evolutions of the windmill
masts of three hundred feet
each blade one fifty
Dun they are
Low they swoop
Rumble they make through your shoes
By night, they set the land alight
with intermittent red
Some say majestic
Others revile
In the right blue-grey sky,
Invisible.
Quixote would be confounded.

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