Windmills

A good friend put me to a literary test the other day, which I easily failed. She sent me the three so-called Immortal Beloved Letters and asked me to identify the famous writer. Mute in music, I could barely recognize Ludwig vanWindmills_2 Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 even if you shouted it in my good ear, let alone those mysterious, unsent and unaddressed letters found on him after his death. I could never compose music or write romantic poetry like Beethoven of course, but those letters, even with the grammatically questionable title that could be the result of inventive translation from German to English, were read aloud in my mind when I was driving home one afternoon and saw some windmills turning in the wind. Funny, I’ve seen them a thousand times before, but it never occurred to me that they were special in any way other than another novel but unsuccessful experiment for some entrepreneur trying to make some money out of thin air.

But on that day they looked different. They were alive and graceful, gavotting their circular wings on the top of the mountains in front of the blue sky, far above the hustle and bustle of the freeway traffic down below. Fur Elize sang; the Three Immortal Beloved Letters spoke their words; and I bodaciously and quixotically recorded my own silly thought.

Windmills_1

*** The End ***

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