"I am merely caught in the machine."

He replied, "You are the machine."

I watch a scythe ruthlessly harvest grain.

It does not look so different from me.

I do not see the person wielding it.

I never do.

I watch a woman hunched with callused hands before a well.

A rope and windlass, heavy, creaking

A bucket lifts, splashing echoes of water eagerly waiting

The woman's eyes brighten.

She snatches the bucket, pours the water into her own

Cold, clear.

I want to be the rope and windlass.

The look on a woman's face is enough.