Windmills have served this arid, high desert region well (pun intended), bringing cool, clear, life-giving water to an often parched surface for people, crops, and livestock. They have stood like loyal servants across a many state region of this Great High Plains, serving tirelessly for many generations.
A few still stand, but they are usually the later steel versions, few wooden ones remain.
When I saw this one laying almost hidden in the weeds at the city dump, I thought, “What an end for such a reliable servant!”
What memories might its wood and simple mechanical mechanism share if only it could? Did it stand in a farmyard with the obligatory tin cup hanging there to provide refreshment for any who stopped? Or was it in a pasture where it filled a tank with cool water for thirsty cattle?
Should there not at least have been some kind of simple ceremony, maybe something akin to what we do for Old Glory. At the very least, I see a fire, with people whose ancestors were dependent on its water gathered round. Its ashes would then return to the very ground it served. Some might share a word or two.
It would be better than this.