Windmills, you mechanical monsters dressed in those white evening gowns. Tonight you lose your rigid nature and become the curves for which we all so long. Oh that you would take on the shapes of Venus of Willendorf, that form that can only belong to those possesing the most natural fertility. But that is not what I saw: no I saw bodies, free from clothing, free bodies but for the heads. The heads were still the triumvirate of rotating blades, clipping the air imperceptibly at times and oblivious to the traveler of the autobahn with his windows raised. Were I the man from La Mancha I would have ridden toward you again, but this time seen the female forms and not chased after you with lance and plastic sword, but instead with the lust that only comes from so much energy stored and produced in one place. Alas I awake and find they are only white towers of energy, turning slowly in the morning's frigid breeze.
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