The Iron Fern

The abandoned tractor settles into the loam, its heavy treads embraced by creeping moss. A sudden rain drums against the flaking hood, playing a quiet, hollow note that only the ancient pines can hear.

Rust blooms like strange, brittle flowers along the edges of the steering wheel. Time moves here not in seconds, but in the slow oxidation of steel, the gradual softening of sharp angles.

We build our monuments to outlast the flesh, forgetting the hungry damp of the earth. Eventually, every engine surrenders to the fern, and the silent mechanics of the forest reclaim the interrupted space.