Giants

They say the giants went extinct years ago;
Too large for this land where the cities have crowded in together.
Here, in the smog-filled alleys, where one must struggle for every breath of air,
Their large lungs could never be filled properly.
In these streets, so crowded with people, where one can be knocked from his feet,
Their sleepy steps would speak of massacre.
Where skyscrapers lean against one another, blocking out the sun,
There was no room for a giant to stretch,
Reach his arms up to the sky
And settle for a nap.
 
And so they died.
Though archeologists with all their scientific gadgets
Have never found their bones,
The scholarly community still cries their creed
Of an ancient culture, overwhelmed by modern monoliths,
That fell asleep forever.
 
I have a different theory,
For I have seen the giants.
They are not dead, nor even sleeping;
No, they have only moved
Into wider, open spaces
Where the sun can caress their faces,
Where they can stretch and doze,
Where they can even dance in their wild, fierce ways,
In worship to the wind-gods of their heritage.
 
You can see them too.
If you make a pilgrimage to where the wheat-swept plains
Roll in glistening currents,
Where coyotes sing their lonesome songs
And pheasants flutter fearfully away,
Where a man can look for miles with nothing to block the view,
There, in the untamed wilderness,
Standing solidly outlined by setting sun,
With arms akimbo to the sky
They stand, a thousand strong, upon the hillside.
 
I have heard them called by other names:
Scientists and scholars,
Businessmen and farmers,
They call them simply turbines of the wind.
But I?
I see giants, driven into empty plains,
Standing, smiling, face looking upward,
Turned into the wind.