On the edge

A tractor rests on the hilltop’s crown,

iron heart stilled, its engine down.

Once it roared through furrows deep,

now it leans in a quiet sleep.

Paint sun-faded, hot wheels,

it holds the memory of harvest days.

Below, the valley hums with light,

but here it keeps the edge of night.

A sentinel of soil and stone,

king of the summit, all alone—

its silence heavier than its weight,

a pause where work and time abate.

Done