He stares straight ahead, fascinated by the whirling movement of the windmill. He's not really here with me now. I can see it in his eyes. Sometimes he looks away from the windmill to the shivering leaves on the trees, trying to make a connection. I think of Boone's fascination with light switches and turning ceiling fans on and off.
Fans make breeze.
The windmill spins round and round. It reminds me of my work. My job makes me feel like Don Quixote sometimes. I might as well be tilting at windmills for all the good my stories do. The metal blades, each tipped in red, reflect the brilliant sunlight like spinning mirrors.