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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