An ember, hot poker, a cry, a drop, a crash—

the Miller tells his tale with relish.

And here alone in the Mill City I’ll embellish

The story just a bit and a little slapdash.

The river foam isn’t flour-white, but flour’s not white

Only bleached

And I’m beached

On a riverbank without a fight.

There is no flood

Only flour, and ice in the blood

And concrete and mud.