A Windfarmer Poem by Francie Lynch

The windfarmer was thirty
When Sputnik was launched.
He woke the kids who followed
His finger across the night sky
Of a new nativity.

He returned to the tractor,
Ploughed years of soil,
Planted rows of questions,
Tilled crops and cared
For animals.

He wind farms now;
Stands beneath the behemoth blades
Turning over the air we breathe,
Felling the clouds,
And harvesting the wind.
The mills are run by a distant orbiter.
His farm he calls Sputnik.