The Windmill

Crickets quit chirping. Wind rustling through weeds

signals intrusion.  The windmill sighs.

Dogged he enters; he knows what he needs.


“Why?” cries the windmill west swaying to east,

with a croak mournful as a raven’s grief.

Concealed in deep shadows: a determined beast.


The marauder claims his dark relief.

A craven fool, by deed he is made

Of trust, betrayer; of innocence, thief.


The wind shifts again with a weary groan.

Damage is done–a permanent stain.

The windmill is stilled, aloof and alone.


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