The wind whistled a mean tune across the bright green surface of a field. Standing in the middle was a stark white windmill, seeming to move too fast for its own good. From this distance it seemed ready to shatter, like that famous YouTube video.
A group of adults towards the second end of their life stood wearing things that duck hunters would raise eyebrows at, holding cameras and snapping them at the only thing in their foreground: the sheepish windmill, waving back at them.
It made her happy to see the tourists happy. It’s why, when she went home for Thanksgiving or Christmas and her grandparents talked about the cancer these things were supposedly causing, or the low-frequency death rattles they gave, or the actual “scientific low-efficiency” of the white eyesores, she just smiled, and ate the food her grandparents had made for her, the same food they’d been fed all their lives.