Nine Giants

No Quixote, me.
Windmills are windmills
In my world. I don't 
Dream nobility.
I don't go on quests.

But I do commute.
I do get around.
I'm too damn restless,
Perpetually,
And my vision's weak.

Therefore, when I pass
My nine wind turbines
(Yes, I call them mine,
Quixotic enough,
I'll admit) each week,

I wave. I greet them
As friends, as omens,
Irrationally,
Nine white spinning towers
At the canyon's mouth,

Profiting someone,
Gathering the wind,
Frankly beautiful
Expressions of power,
Pinwheeled need and greed.

I can't understand
What makes them gorgeous.
Perhaps their sheer size
In solemn, graceful
Motion dumbfounds me.

You'd think a being,
An ape who belonged
To such a species,
Capable of both
Novels and windmills,

Would know what he saw
Of his kind's making
As ordinary,
Comprehensible--
Ant watching anthills.

But they're weird to me,
Magical. I know
How they do their work,
But they baffle me
By seeming to mean.