Windmill Country

Driving south through fields of blinking lights
The only break in the monotony
Of black, dead night, I cannot help but see
Their livid red as comfort. On such nights
A sign, however slim, of human hope
Of something someone somewhere meant to do
Is heartening. They blink when they want to,
Irregular, and as my blind eyes grope
For something to hold onto, each short burst
Of longed-for light is precious and unique;
The fields between without them are but bleak
And leave me dark, to contemplate the worst.
Daylight reveals prosaic shafts and blades
But magic fills the gaps where daylight fades.