I dreamt the forklifts were praying

I'm walking a warehouse at night and every old Hyster and Clark has its engine idling, low and even, like a congregation breathing in unison. The hydraulic fluid drips on the concrete and it sounds like a rosary, each bead a small thunk. Then the youngest one, a Crown with a dead battery, struggles to turn over and the whole room goes quiet — like the machines were waiting for it, or waiting for me to say something I never learned.