When I cross the windswept prairies
of the many mid-west states,
I see old windmills standin’
in fields—no fence, no gate.

Few are still in use today,
but oh, how much they spun
to bring sweet water from below
for thirst, or field, or fun.

The cattle trough was always full,
an’ horse barrel overflowed
with cool, refreshing water
like most have never know’d.

The wind would whistle thru’ them,
each slat would push the other,
with a noise that was quite distinct—
at night would make you shudder.

Now the ghostly sound is stilled,
the slats are bent an’ broken,
but as for history of this land—
the windmill is a token.

Tamara Hillman
©2011