Being out on the opening plain, in the bold light(en)ing of the sun cast, black earthen shadows — the desert, the wind rips across the line, tumbleweeds roar across the dustscape.
And I find this windmill, that’s taking me back to the same old place, back in the beginning — back to Flagler, Colorado, and my grandfather’s farm. There, the windmill turns and clanks and cranks — and the water keeps coming.
Right now, as the wind turns the aeromotor, there’s a long clanking metallic draw — the water pulls up from the cold earth, and it pours out into a holding tank — where horses will be gathering.
As I look up into the turning rotors of the mill, the blades cut the sun into a thousand pulses of light, and my horizon flickers, dizzy, as the colors mix and I’m rushing in the same rhythm, as the water pours in to the tank, and I can scent the green cold water of the deep earth, pouring there, gurgling.
Meanwhile, there are tiny fish, flitting in the tank, wondering — “where to, next?”
I ask the selfsame question.
tim | sedona
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