"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
I want to be the rope and windlass.
The look on a woman's face is enough.