When running as it should,
dirt from miles around
hops on for the exalting ride.
Those little overlapping plates
their black beards
hugging pins at their junctures
travel round a spinning Ferris Wheel
serving an expedient pair of feet.
A thousand moving parts
squalidly pressing and squeezing
precisely against one another
to give birth to the motion
that feeds on a clean blue horizon.
First published The Pangolin Review Sept. 8, 2018