Wind Turbine Elegy

A wind turbine (#3034678 in the USWTDB) neighboring a regenerative farm in rural Illinois observes two centuries of climate collapse, social change, and ecological resilience from its high vantage point.

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2011. When I am built, the land
Extending in all directions is crossed
By concrete trails, the arteries of industry.
They carry my component parts from distant places
South of Sheldon they assemble me.
Deity of the flatlands, savior
Of the human race, they
Have made me
To endure.

2014. A human child on the road to Indianapolis
Breathes in tandem with my blinking.
Small comfort, to know I am
Loved as well as
Useful.

2017. Time
How does a wind-turbine
Experience time? It is not exact
But today I saw the moon fully eclipsed,
The sun a terrible lens. From my
Vantage point (121.3 meters)
I felt cold, and feared
The universe–its
Capacity for
Change.

2024. The people of the houses
Watch me with my siblings at night.
Our towers interconnected, like aspens
At a distance forming a border or portal,
We can see the edges of the future.
The house-people consider
Us at dusk. They must
Feel great awe.

2029. New plants on the land
Thrive in a wildly changing climate.
I used to see the shining twisting Iroquois River,
Now it is gone. Brown boughs reflect its prior shape.
Here and there I see patches of vibrancy–
Plots of food, of flowers, I think
Three miles north a garden
Forests to the east.

2037. A great storm of dust
Wrecked my remaining wind-turbine siblings.
After half a year the engineers came with trucks and tanks to haul
Their bones away, to be recombined into new machines, industry never dying.
My generator is slowing, my anemometer reads wind that is not there.
I am growing old. There are fewer house-people, no children
On the roads, what is left of them after the floods,
Tornadoes, polar vortexes, droughts, hail,
Wildfires that leave only ash.
I am obsolete.

2055. Today a portion of my spine corroded
Beyond repair and loosened by the wind
Has capsized, ruining my posture;
A great grunt of metal falling,
Scattering the sparrows–
Rust, nails, plastic.

2080. Decay does not bother me as it used to.
Many years ago, I knew my purpose. To translate
The irascible wind into human movement, into production
Unceasing. Now my once-perfect components lay
At my feet and turn to dirt and grime,
Apartments for pill-bugs.
(armadillidiidae)

2192. A family of bears has taken up residence in the folds of my fallen arms.
Through the winter in a half-living state they birth their young.
Later, in spring, the cubs explore old paths camouflaged
With new life. Wild hyacinth, elm and ash, bluebells,
Coyotes, otters, osage, orange pawpaw fruits,
Ramps morels ground cherries–
A harvest festival!

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Featured image: Windmills at sunset in Dobrich Province, Bulgaria. Photo by Stefan Mitev, 2021.

Anya Kaplan-Harnett lives in Chicago, where they work in youth development and outdoor leadership. They graduated from Colorado State University in 2024 and completed a fall fellowship at Zumwalt Acres, a regenerative farm in rural Illinois. Anya grew up in Champaign-Urbana, about sixty miles from the wind turbines in this poem. Contact.