As in: the father and son, picnicking against the wind turbine,
the wheels still idly turning on their bicycles, look a little gembloux
to me, at any rate from this distance and through this glass
and past the frosted letters designating the sortie de secours:
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza tilting at windfarms whose bright
white trunks rise like steamer chimneys in a sea of maize.
They turn in synch but there’s no breeze; each one plugged
into the national grid to make us think the wind still blows.