Outside Sweetwater, windmill armies hold on to something empty and bright. I am a traveler. For a moment, I watch the big structures spin, their lights chirping red, flashing red, not unlike cardinals flying full speed, jetsetting to New Mexico, Arizona, California, digging the hearts out of ghost towns, swallowing the lungs of abandoned houses whole. I wonder how such a small town can have a post office and a cemetery. An old man drives by in a rusted Queen Victoria and I bet he was born here and has lived his whole life here. I bet he knows that outside Sweetwater, the windmill armies collect all that’s silent, everything I do not want to hear. What I want is this: I want to throw a party for the town and have everyone gather around the empty Food Mart. We can fill it with Moonpies and pomegranates. We can dance to the windmill puls, and when the air pushes toward us, we will curl with it, like a bird unfurling its wing, or like the coil of her hair, and we will bend in such a way that our movements turn into circles, traveling only to hit, pass, an hi the point in which we came, new and naked, into this place.
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