White pinions rotate over hills, over sea-sides, extracting energy from the morning breeze, the scuff of each rotation can be heard to the attentive ear -- disaster! Unsightly! All for the fear of a dying planet that is such a gentle temperature in the mid 60s in December and a pleasant 50 in February. The triple digits in summer are an outlier. They’re mad to build such an unsightly, unseemly, unorganic thing, to have it stand poised over our landscapes. Thank you, kind citizen, for being our brave Don Quixote. Continue on your way, on the wheels of your metal mule.