To an Eastern Box Turtle

Last month, by chance, while stepping through the lawn

   my foot fell on a boulder—

   your shield. But now you’re gone.

Next time I chanced upon you, you were colder.

My guess: as you were about to lay your eggs

   into the shallow hole

   you dug with sturdy legs,

you shuddered from a puzzling thunder roll,

closer and closer, felt your shell being crushed,

   and then the world went blank.

   The soughing wind was hushed.

(A Super Surfer mower is to thank.)

Through rain and heat, your parts vanished like bread

   strewn across the earth

   for sparrows. Ants had fed

on all but your armor and what your life was worth:

half a dozen oval, easily broken,

   flaccid hints of scattered

   sentience that would have woken

to a world where carapaces can be shattered

as easily as a globe becomes a box

   split into smaller cases,

   where turtle, deer, or fox

at end of day does not know where its place is.

You were as brave and bright as summer flowers:

   orange, yellow, black

   before man spoke with powers

that ultimately cracked your ancient back.

______

(Originally appeared in Soundzine)