The Quiet Rust

Iron yields to the damp breath of autumn, a slow bloom of orange creeping across the hinge. It forgets the rigid purpose of its forging, settling instead into the soil’s patient embrace.

The tractor slumbers in the high grass, its metal ribs exposed to the moon's indifferent stare. Wheels that once turned the dark earth now cradle small pools of rainwater and fallen leaves.

We build monuments to outlast the flesh, but the world is hungry for all we make. Every sharp edge eventually softens, every locked gate inevitably swings wide.