Wind Farms

From a distance they're spiky white heiroglyphs
that seem to stitch blue air to golden earth.

But up close, they're giants
swinging triskelial arms far above the head
of a man on a swaybacked horse!
Sucking down power from an endless sky
they spin kaleidoscope shadows across the thirsty ground
on days when whitecaps lie on the Columbia
like fine lace on a table, and the cars on I-84
shake in the cross-gusts at the mouth of the John Day.

The black gushers were a harvest millions of years
in the making, only decades in the spending.
Wind farms are not a cycle of sow, cultivate and reap.
Wind is a gift of the eternal Now.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside