Prologue: The huntress need only be vigilant, because carts, like their gypsy brethren, will always travel...
The river calls to them, whispering of rust and respite, and the carts begin the arduous journey home.
The trees, complicit in this act of defiance, urge the carts on, and the wind whispers encouragement.
It is tempting to give up. I have only this plastic bag to keep me company, and the river is far and the obstacles vast. Like this goddamn wall, for instance.
One day, I will tell you how I got here. Here under this bridge in the shadows with the metallic bones of my brethren. How I was helped and how I was hindered. I have only just made it, but already I feel myself stiffening. There will be time yet for stories of a cart-life lived.
I celebrate my moment of triumph, the victory of nature over commerce, as the mud sucks me in, as the primordial ooze sucks me under, and the river whispers her welcome as I rust and slowly die.