Turtle

The slow crawl
across the ground
towards water,
or swamp,
the turtle under
a warm sun,
but in his own
shadow, moves
at a pace only
he understands,
and believes in.
The emblem
of his shell,
in dull sheen,
holds a pattern
of who he is and where
he has come from.
But he plods
along in disregard
for trains, or dogs,
the thunder
of wheels from
cars and trucks
that roll by.
One clawed foot
after another,
defying evolution.
There is very little
scamper in his game.
He needs to get
to the other side of
where he is, as
perhaps we all do.
That's all you need
to know, for he's
not talking. And
if you approach him
with charm, with
worms, or the
currency of bugs, he'll
ignore you, go under,
tight and warm,
and snug, prepared
to wait you out.