The trees are peeled back of any leaves, Their branches, showing signs of age, But they in their brutal curves and turns, Can only look the youths they are, Nestling the trucks below.
Beauty is not the words to use For the looks upon their faces As blue and green and red, they sit So quiet in their places.
Each one looking out, it’s glass so clean The shine is gone, the miles have turned Each hulking mass into a statue, As rubber still holds the trucks above the leafy grass.
Each one called valiant in its day, Sturdy beneath the grasp, Of hands on steering wheels and Feet on three pedals, working daily, The guts and glory there.
by Ralph Peck
Photography by Glenda Dietzel Taylor
Comments