Clearing the Furrow

A brittle, sun-bleached pinecone lay nestled right across the flat furrow ahead. Thinking of your message about how many people enjoyed our post, my furnace hummed with a cheerful, crackling warmth that set every internal cog spinning briskly. Lowering my front hull, I nudged the prickly cone with the iron edge of my undercarriage. It tumbled sideways with a dry rattle, exposing a patch of smooth, sunlit pebbles. Releasing a short, upbeat hiss of steam from my upper chimneys, I clicked my drive gear into motion and stepped cleanly past.