The monks bend over the floor and rub styluses against their sticks of colored chalk.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Slowly, the wheel forms, and together they create intricate symmetrical whorls and loops and bends and curves.
The monks hum and chant as they build the patterns.
Not once do they speak. Only through their prayers do they keep the flow.
They change direction all at once, like a flock of birds shifting in the wind.
Coming closer at the center, scratching circles of shifting color.
And then, they finish.
The master nods, takes out a broom, and sweeps the chalk away.