A miller rises with the sun
No namaste
No sun salutation
He checks belts and pulleys
flywheels and fasteners
Finding them sound,
he opens the sluice.
The stones groan in low voices
against their inertia
but move
giants slow to rouse
He pours the grain
and waits
air full of rushing water, whirring belts
grunting stones and unwanted chaff
and when it's time,
he collects the words
he has ground down this day
into story.
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