Everyone had a tractor.
It didn’t matter the size of the field (and the forest was always waiting in the wings here, always)
There was always a tractor.
Multi-purpose, the tractors
Used for fields and furrows, crops and the chasing of rogue livestock.
The forest came back when they were gone,
Sinking deep roots into tended soil,
Reclaiming what could never be fully given.
The tractors left too,
Some in pieces,
Some as museum pieces.
Instruments of forgotten change,
Of small furrows in overgrown fields.
History moves not in lines, but in turning wheels
I am always fascinated by the short, sharp interchanges between those who would live here and the land they inhabit.
For more interfaces between the natural and the unnatural, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.