I’m glad my dad warned me about it, because if I’d just come out of Gibson City and seen it with no warning, I would have had an accident. But you round a corner and there, spread out as far as Bloomington, are miles and miles of windmills, enormous windmills with three long spiky arms, turning over and over and over themselves, like a poem or a prayer or a breeze just a little higher up than me.
It was like driving through some kind of avant-garde forest, silver suggestions of trees.
I should have taken a picture. I will try to get back over there and take a picture.