Planted In Wind

I didn’t stop the car. Not for the solar panels, anyway. They were there — just beyond the turbines — covering the same fields that used to grow corn or soy or something that at least changed with the seasons. But I was already moving, and it would’ve taken effort to pull over, find a clean frame, avoid trespassing.

And besides, stopping to photograph rows of panels or corn only makes sense if the sky gives you something back — something that makes you look twice. That morning, it didn’t.

So I kept going.

I did grab a quick photo through the windshield — iPhone in one hand, eyes mostly on the road. One of those drive-by shots you take without thinking too much, just to mark the moment. The turbines were off in the distance, scattered across the field like chess pieces caught mid-move.

Even though the turbines were far away, they still made themselves the subject — whether I wanted them to or not.

I’ve seen them before, plenty of times — in Iowa, Kansas, Illinois, Minnesota, New Mexico, North Dakota, Colorado, and my home state, Wisconsin. They’re not rare anymore. I’m sure there are other states I’ve driven through that had them scattered in varying numbers. But that doesn’t mean I’ve gotten used to them. Even now, they strike me the same way: uniform, towering, and completely at odds with everything around them. Not beautiful. Not neutral. Just present. Like a dust spot on a sensor — something I can’t unsee once I notice it.

I understand the reasoning. Cleaner energy. Less reliance on fossil fuels. Harnessing what’s already there. That part makes sense on paper.
Then again, so does paper — and look how often we ignore that.

That distant shot stuck with me, so later — on a different day, in different light — I stopped and stood beneath one. Not the same turbine, but close enough. The blades curved overhead like they were measuring the sky. Clean. Pale. Almost elegant if you don’t think too hard about it.

But still… not belonging.

In practice, I’m not sure we’re thinking hard enough about the where — or the why.

Why do they rise out of crop fields instead of brownfields or landfills? Why do they appear in the open spaces that once grew food or held wild sky? Why do we default to the most convenient terrain instead of asking what we might be giving up in the process?

I remember reading, maybe twenty years ago, that covering the land with turbines could eventually reduce wind speeds. It was probably in a USA Today article I found online, back when these machines were just starting to take root. And while I haven’t seen the winds slow in my travels, I have noticed what’s changed on the ground.

We call them progress. We call them necessary. I call them out of place.

I’m not arguing against renewable energy. I’m not arguing, period. I’m just trying to understand how we ended up with forests of steel in the middle of fields — and why nobody seems to be asking if this is the best we can do.

The wind still blows. The turbines still turn. But the land feels different.

And I still haven’t taken a proper photo of those solar panels.