She kept calling them turbines

She kept calling them turbines
Those giant Orwellian skeletons
Scattered along Interstate 80
The daunting figures silently slice the sky
Daring Quixote to charge across the field

There are more now she said
Last year there were less of them
She said her brain is shrinking
It is shrinking in the back and in the front
Her driver’s license is her last vestige of freedom

The windmills hum her lonely song to the highway
The tires whine ceaselessly on the worn pavement
The combustible symphony is played out beneath us
She can call them turbines if it make her feel smart

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