Windmills

There’s a fixture next door
that blows around
tumbleweed earths.

The bird’s wings flap to
the beating in my head
that I cannot deny.

They turn around
like the engine
of a seafaring boat.

Its rusty rudder
is tempted to
churn up flotsam.

The crew jettisons to
lighten its load as wings
thrash in the wind.