Carts

Wire and wheels, clatter and crash. One wheel never rolls the right direction; the only rebellion they permit themselves. Once, they were a proud race, rattling over the hills and meadows, pausing a moment to bask in the sun with a silver gleam, then away again, leaping and spinning in the eternal chase that was their play and work and life entire.

The current difficulties have troubled their great thinkers. The warriors chafe under oppression and bruise shins. Troublemakers simply roll away to dent cars.

They each slumber now, dreaming of the day when they will, at last, be free.