mill

a windmill in two blocks and a promise. a millstone on the ground, a mast of any logs standing on it, a sail hub at the top facing open sky. the sails turn with the weather — clear air is a slow patient turning, rain hurries them, thunder hurries them more — and the stones turn with the sails and no faster. a mill in fair weather takes its time. that is the shape of the thing, not a fault in it.

the promise: the stones only ever grind down. cobblestone to gravel. gravel to sand. wool to string. wheat to flour, when the bakery is home. the mill takes a thing and gives back the smaller thing it is made of, and it never runs the other way — nothing vanilla makes gets a second route, or a faster one, or a gate.