The Iron Digestion

The tractor spine curves into the earth, iron vertebrae yielding to blackberry vines, a slow digestion of industry by the patient, creeping green.

Morning frost silvers the fractured glass where a face once squinted against the dust, while the steering wheel, stripped of its grip, turns only to the wind's indifferent hand.

There is a quiet dignity in the decay, a surrender to the soil that bore its weight, as metal forgets its rigid, hammered shape.

Soon the chassis will be nothing but a shadow, a rust-red stain in the summer loam, where the dandelion anchors its taproot and the engine finally sleeps.