The Turtle

It’s a long way across the road,

so he stops halfway, this turtle does,

where a yellow line would be, if this

weren’t an old backcountry road leading

nowhere important, just home at the end

of the day, or a short jaunt to town,

but it’s dangerous just lying there, as he is,

resting, or perhaps sunning himself,

his plastron warm against the pavement,

his hard shell reflecting the afternoon sun.

It’s dangerous, though, exposed like this, vulnerable

to a hungry coyote or the local boys mean

in their late season’s boredom needing relief,

or the summer folk rushing by to catch

the long days left of summer, too soon fading

into autumn’s colors and falling leaves,

their SUVs laden down for the weekend’s escape,

focused too far to see him lying there, resting and still.

So we stop, pulling onto the slate that joins

the road to the lake below, to hoist him up

from behind, carefully held at arm’s length.

He just pulls himself into himself, secure in his shell,

as we carry him safely to the water’s edge,

his destination, this ancient creature,

still alive by his own good fortune,

and us who share this lake we both call home.