Truck. Abandoned. Rusted out. Such
strong remnants though. The farmer used to stay and work while his kin went to
listen to the priest give an exegesis on the gospels. No worries for anyone.
The man of God had his work and the farmer had his. There was not a reason to
think of the outer world, meaning the greater world such as cities and
continents. Yes, cities maybe a passing thought and other continents and countries
nothing but a dream. The man had work to do. Barely literate but holy in his
vocation. Tending, mending, waiting sometimes. And the rains come to the
fields. A gift. He knows the townsfolk, the old fences that run around the
land, the texture of the loams and the rest. That was his truck, a true friend.
But all things come to pass as is said. The priest knew and the farmer knew.
Both long gone from the earth. Elsewhere. Farming the astral planes for souls
and wheat both. And the truck sits there and we tell a little story because we
are still here and that is one of the things people do.
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