Sadie Shuck Hinkel: Light Echoes Across
Photo: Joanna C. Valente
The Windmills in Northwest Iowa
blink together
like they are all eyelashes
on one giant eye. The red
light echoes across the corn
fields, but there is no sound.
Millions of ears still listen.
I saw one of the propellers
on the bed of a semi-truck
once. It took up two lanes
of the highway. It was limp,
an amputation. It’s hard
to imagine someone
climbing high enough to stitch
that missing limb onto
the machines, climbing high
enough to see the blades
split the sky wide
open. My friend Madeline
is a scientist and once told me
wind farms kill thousands
of birds a year. It makes sense.
I think I would fly right into
their arms, too, if I could.
Sadie Shuck Hinkel is a poet, essayist, and teacher from the Midwest. She received her MA from Coastal Carolina University, and she edits Electric Moon Magazine. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Barren Magazine, Boston Accent Lit, Ghost City Review, and others. She lives with her husband Skyler and her cat Charlie.
