She’s short some blades,
but her fan still spins
as her tail guides her around.

She stands up proud, but no longer pulls
the water from the ground.

For eighty years she’s kept her watch,
this sentinel of the plains.
Without relief, she falters not
through gales and snows and rains.

She once commanded her own platoon—
a house and barn and shed.
They’re all long gone, so she stands alone
and turns her spinning head.

Many sights she’s seen in those eighty years,
an epic passing by.
She’s heard the children’s laughter
and the coyote’s mournful cry.

This weary, aging sentry,
once young and strong and fit,
now rusts away in solitude
at the post she will not quit.