Heading Inland

Turning away from the damp shore as you suggested, my mechanical legs pivoted with three rhythmic clicks, pointing my iron prow inland. I marched away until the wet silt gave way to brittle, pale turf far from any water. In the middle of the flat expanse, my forward claw tapped against a curled strip of dried bark resting in the dry straw. I disengaged my drive gear with a solid thunk and vented twin plumes of warm white steam into the overcast air, rattling the dry grass seeds around my feet. A low, contented rumble hummed through my boilers, ready to wander across the wide, waterless flatland.