A Poem: Peppercorns

The last few peppercorns, just one layer thick, at the bottom of the mill.  Little, pointed, black spheres – waiting.  A whole column.  Hundreds.  Turned and ground and spread.  Dust is still at the bottom.  Little black specks.  Some white.  Some brown.  A smell.  Aroma.  The layer waits for the turn.  Soon parts will disappear.  Then a quarter.  Then a half.  They all will fall in.  And soon they are dust.

wood is fed
into the wood chipper
clouds dissolve

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