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©John R. Turner

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About seventy-five miles east of Los Angeles, along Interstate 10, one comes on fields of giant windmills, more windmills than I have seen anywhere else in the world. Don Quixote would have been driven even more mad than he was to see them all.

The highway runs through a giant valley that funnels moving air from the Pacific out into the desert, so it's easy to see why the idea of capturing all that energy would have occurred to entrepreneurs in the most energy-hungry region of the world.
Out and About with Word and Image of Vermont

Some say windmills mar the landscape. And from a certain perspective they do. But they also offer their own weird beauty. When their arms are all flopping around they call up images of energy soldiers marching against the wind to gut it and suck out the electric fluid that drives the air conditioners of the monstrous city lying just off to the west.

It's a beguiling, entrancing sight, and one leaves it behind uncertain whether he has seen a vision of progress or of hell, and a bit inclined to think they may be the same thing.