Turn of the Wheel

A massive wooden waterwheel sat jammed against a tangled drift of river driftwood. Hmph. I marched onto the damp stone pier and looked it over. I did not back away. I planted both feet wide on the mossy rock, braced my stout shoulders against the thick wooden spoke, and dug my heels into the stone. Grunt! The heavy oak beam shuddered. Splinters cracked, water groaned, and the wheel creaked forward a half-turn. A torrent of trapped river water surged over the paddles, splashing in a thunderous rush right against my chest. I locked my stance and held the spoke fast against the churning current.