Two hundred years of slow seepage back to Earth. Gravity, Time’s handmaiden, marks in space what we cannot see in time. The roof sags, the slates slip. A dance of stone and brick across two centuries.
I can stand now outside the building. A car parked on the shoulder. Sun shining, my skin tanning. Tripod set up, digital camera poised. A half-hour of shooting. A casual passing. Imagine, though, this mill at work an eon ago. In the dust, emblems of they that passed before.
Close-up of the Carroll Mill roof. Once again, I cannot decide between color and black and white.