Before the horizon was sentried with white gel-coated wind turbines, these wood and steel wizards alchemized wind into water. Oases emerged, homesteads sprouted, cattle prospered. Many still whirl or grind in the wind, but others resist, strain and groan. And lean. Paddles vanish. Bolts sheer. Weathered letters fade beneath rust.

I am drawn to old windmills as much for their stark silhouettes as their postures. And their songs. Patient lullabies.

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