The Windmill’s Turning Echo: A Repetition of Labor Across Generations

There’s something about the open range that speaks to the soul of a cowboy.

In fields where whispers of the past sway,

The windmill creaks, its arms in play.

Each turn recalls the hands who fought,

In sun-baked toil, their lessons taught.

Beneath the sun, the ranchers kin,

With calloused hands, they plow and spin.

Each load of hay, each cow’s low call,

Is echoed in the stories tall.

When storms would rage and shadows spread,

The windmill sang to those who fled.

From father down to grandsons hand,

They learned of life upon this land.

As twilight falls, the stars align,

The labor born of earth and vine.

In every spin, a history flows,

The windmills turning, where the heart knows.