Iron Roots

Ferns uncoil through the shattered ribcage of a sleeping iron beast, its belly hollowed out by seasons of quiet moss. The rails beneath it have dissolved into rust, a soft orange powder returning to the earth.

No whistle shatters the canopy now, only the slow, persistent drip of rain measuring out a different kind of schedule. Vines knit themselves across the cold wheels, anchoring the great weight to the loam.

It breathes out the damp smell of forgotten journeys, a monument to motion forced to stand perfectly still, learning the slow language of the encroaching woods.