The trees came down and the land was freshly scarred and bare with flat promise. Telegraph poles stitched the wind then, and the settlers’ dreams and the crows which perched before scattering against the ribs of starved sky. Came the silos from the stubble and the billboards and the bulbous watertowers promising plenty. The pylons and antennae bristling legion voices of those who passed through and passed on. The giant windmills with fins of long dead plesiosaurs, reclaiming where they once swam and left their bones in underwater groves that would fall to surge again, in a newly dry plain.