Windmills purr slowly
and look lonely
despite the number of them.
Everything looks golden brown
and tired
under the remorseless sun.

The well-adapted stay motionless
in the inadequate shade
and the unknowing are conspicuous
with expensive water bottles
and heavy clothes.

No one really knows why they still live here.
Maybe they were born here,
and felt a need to return
as if they owed the land their lives.
Maybe they just want to protest
against nature’s No Trespassing signs,
the desert’s greatest joke.


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