Maybe one day a long time ago she just stopped working, stopped pulling the old man in the seat across the fields and just couldn’t make one more trip to the barn. Maybe the old man turned the tired old girl under the shade tree and got off to walk to the house for lunch. We’ll never know.
The wheels are buried in the grassy dirt and the summer moss has found a comfortable place to grow for another season. She won’t work again, she won’t purr and hum, she won’t make another round around the field. She’ll just sit and rest, safely retired after a life of service.
The seasons change, but the ground holds the old metal wheels fast where they stopped all those years ago.
