The windmill, rusty and disused besidea trough fallen to decay murmurs all day. You can hear it mumbling as you ride by on the road where tower lines stretch away to pumps and engines. What it has to say is between it and the winds, but I think it still can care that nothing comes to drink.
Once its blades stretched at each wisp of air. It turned everywhere, searching from south to north, and churned water forth ... At noon it flowed full tanks for the farmer's team. The horses thrust their noses deep into cool sweet water; it was an eager stream for cows at sunset, and it spewed a pool over its edges for fluttering butterflies.
No water rises in the tank now! The windmill tries for a zephyr or a cloud, but is bound. You hear it speak only to spiders and the melancholy ground with a dry creak.