The Distant Legend
The flour sack is heavy in your hands, the burlap rough against your palms, and you are pouring the last of the rye into the hopper when the taste hits you, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat like a coin held under the tongue. You stop, the stream of grain cutting off abruptly, and stand there in the dim, pre-dawn light of the bakery, listening to the silence that follows the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen