Sadie Shuck Hinkel: Light Echoes Across
Photo: Joanna C. Valente

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.