Golden Moss

Down in the ditch by a road from from the highway, lay a tractor that had once pulled promises. Its gear shift was bent out of place, and the steering wheel was entirely missing. The old red coat was wrinkled and aged, sunburnt and covered in rust that looked like golden moss. Inside lived jokes and harlequins, making their homes in the muffler and gas tank. They would come out smelling of diesel and romance, of sweat and songs, and it would be obvious in their eyes that they did not know that babies grew only to die. In the mud their toes would wriggle and get cleaner, and in the rain their hair would get shorter, simpler, and brown. However, the sun shines upon this dreary scene with rays of beauty and prose, and the tractor doesn't seem to mind at all.