Minnesota has no AT&T service. My cell phone won't even send a text. But out of nowhere, up pop windmills... everywhere... white arms whirling in the morning breeze, sun occasionally glinting off the blades as they cut the early mist.
In the midst, cell towers blink intermittent signals to everywhere that is not AT&T. Far off on the horizon, more swirling family clusters spring into view. Close up, towers flash between propeller blades, cranking, turning.
The wind picks up. "Forty mile per hour gusts," said the morning newscaster.
Little Red hugs the highway, riding low under the Minnesota wind as it whips across beige fields of dried out corn stalks. Roadside locust trees bend, and flame red sumac branches sway, as what yellow leaves are left on the aspen dance from the twigs.
Minnesota has had lots of rain; miniature lakes dot the edges of fallow fields where un-harvested cow corn stands knee deep in puddles. The sky stretches blue from left to right, with only a half dot moon to peek from the edge of the windshield as we breeze along. Andy and I drive in silence, taking in the vastness.
Outside of Jackson, Minnesota, a hundred white pillars, some with blades not yet attached, rise from the fields. A farm of windmills. A wind farm, growing, white stalks with roots planted in black earth, and all reaching up for the sun.
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