I can almost hear the screak of the windmill on our farm when the wind turned. I'd be up in my room with the window open, waiting for the sun to sleep after its work of heating up a summer's day. I liked windmill speak - the ancient sound kept alive by new air. I often feared a strong gale would fly off with our windmill, taking our foothold, our memorial to days past and our assurance of the new breath of hope in the morrow.
Other Photo of the Week posts:
Fields of Gold