I dreamed the forklifts were praying

I was in a warehouse at dawn, not mine, but one I knew by the smell of hydraulic fluid and old rubber. The forklifts weren’t moving—just standing in rows, their forks lowered like hands folded. One by one, they began to hum, low and steady, not from engines but from somewhere deeper. I didn’t feel fear. Just recognition. Like they’d been waiting for someone to notice the way they held their weight, the way the oil pooled in the joints like tears. And when I knelt, I realized my own hands were stained the same color as theirs.