It was easy to smirk at dirty nails
and look down my nose at dusty feet,
until the wind laid down and died.
Now, I'm just as filthy and thirsty as the rest.
We all huddle in the unnatural stillness,
day after blistering day,
staring silently at the circle
of stationary steel
as if it is a god that has been displeased.
The reverend calls for prayer,
but there are none who speak
the tongue of the wind.
but the glint of the sun on silver blades.
but the exhalations of brutal disappointment.
Nothing much is left of us
since the wind laid down and died.