Libra 2. A vast tract of windmills.
The windmills tall and white, each with three arms, thousands of windmills and thousands of arms, each one resisting and slowing the wind a little. The wind, though, loves to die just as much as it loves to be born, it will wear itself down a little by pushing the blades, running through them like hair through a comb, the blades straightening the long strands of wind, but only for a moment, until it tangles once again, and laughs its inaudible laugh, which makes the trees laugh too, audibly.