Farm Truck

Serpent Box

Riding high on the fender of an old Chevy pick-up gone to rust on the side of the road, the light shines no more, nor does it blink to signify the driver’s intent, but the sun shines through it. A sliver of apple-red is all it can muster from that energy source that powers all. But the light still shines through. You can almost hear the engine, chugging like a prop-driven plane. The horn is something out of the Walton’s, as is the whole truck, coming round a mountain road in a cloud of tawny dust. Loaded down with hay or feed, or topsoil, or men. Farm truck. A pick-up put to work. There was no man-child here pretending to be tough. This was about horse-power with a job to do. If you drove this thing you used your hands to get by. And you had to be strong. Likely…

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