As I knead the dough in the early morning…
… Doing the same gesture on a stone slab of pale color, I look up and see the bend where the two rivers meet.
I continue to work the dough, lifting a few strands of hair from my forehead with the back of my hand. Small particles of flour float in the air; as the sun rises, they turn into gold.
The house is still asleep. I so enjoy this moment of solitude, working the dough to the rhythm of the river.
I shape the dough into small sunshines, and place them in the clay oven.
The aroma of bread will be the same a few millennia from now, and maybe, just maybe, someone will be thinking of me as they knead the dough in the early morning.