I slept in a guest house built in the shadow of the abandoned mill. In the morning hours, I bent my ear to the wind just so, right at the angle of nostalgia, and I heard the histories of the men and women who laid the bricks of that mill. People of another era grinding grain for the community, for themselves. I heard the humming of the the woman whose thee young’uns were waiting for pops to cross the Atlantic after having been holed up in Italy. The whistling of the man between wars who fought off the ghosts with high pitched sounds. The foreman, a devotee of the Baptist church who worked up a good lather through work instead of preaching. The bricks men lay carry their stories. So often we walk on by, deaf to the wind.
*Photo taken with the Fujifilm X100S.