Interstate 90, southern Minnesota

We glimpse them from changing perspective, their
meshings and symmetries only of the moment
and our position, chance balletic
encounters the accidental aesthetic
bonus of these utilitarian giants.

I understand why some dislike, even hate them
for chopping to pieces the old assured
silences with their whooshing blades.
Farmhouses must sit uneasily beneath them
fanning out in far ranks, pinwheeling to the horizon.

Their clear, rational lines rebuke our unreason,
oil on our one hand, blood on the other.
Their very presence on the landscape
tells a story of irresistible change,
a future that will not be deferred.

It takes an attitude adjustment
to accept them for what they really are,
our practical better angels, bending down
with long, graceful arms to catch us
in our fall toward rage and disorder.