To the editor:
Twas my day home from work, the beds were all made,
Not a windmill was turning,
not even a blade.
I went out to enjoy the peace and still air, And what did I see, but my horse standing there.
I went over to touch him and drink in his smell
Then I felt the tears in my eyes start to well.
When moved here our dream was to build a log cabin.
Now I’m not sure that our vision will happen.
I know that we need to conserve – that I get
But can’t the swooshing, thumping and roaring quit?
We value our peace and our quiet solitude
We find the noise from these windmills quite rude.
For a moment I treasured the silence, the stillness.
I sure wished my husband was home to hear this.
Then up in the sky there arose quite a clatter
A windmill? A jet? Oh joy, it’s the latter.
As that plane flew by,
I pondered how
Could a plane up high sound like windmills below?
The windmill people say they are gathering their data
Measuring the volume, to see what’s the matta
In the end I suspect that nothing will change,
Get used to it or leave will be what’s to arrange.
Many have said if there’
someone to profit
There’s certainly no way for
others to stop it.
Then I ask myself if I was
someone quite needy,
Would people assume I was just being greedy?
Would the whole windmill deal be suddenly moot
If I were getting a share of the loot?
By some they’ve been described as candles on a cake
Or angel arms reaching high, oh give me a break!
I do have to admit that the sight of these brutes.
Would be easier to accept if the noise we could mute.
As the turbines began again I brushed back my hair.
It seems only a few people who live out here care.
Dee Hawksley
Mars Hill
