Don
Quixote de la Mancha
would
never tilt at these towers
that
dwarf Dutch ancestors.
No
cloth laced wooden blades
at
which to take aim,
just
edged steel, spinning swords
splitting
wind in twain,
separating
energy from air.
Arms
atop spires
the
color of sun bleached bone
scattered
in sparse dry grasses.
Inorganic
crosses arms wide,
spinning
hypnotically,
enthralling
witnesses and martyrs,
as
cattle and pronghorn
worship,
heads bowed,
grazing.
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