From Mancha

The wind caught in the arms of mills mocks the drama
of minutes floating across the sky. Don Quixote of the elongated
sun's shadows rested his chin on his hand - his gaze dull.
A windmill. A windmill. Rosinante with a bony jaw gathers
crickets and eats because they look and smell like grass.
And while in the bushes Sancho Pansa ravishes a girl
who within her thick red body harbors Dulcinea's
defenseless collarbones - Don Quixote confronts a giant.
And wins. Chittery green music splits Rosinante's
gaunt ribs.