turtle sunrise

a flat black
turtle,
the pentagon of his shell
unsheened
in the dull
light of an april
morning. it hardly
moves in the wash
of cans
and wrappers, cigarette
butts. lime colored
tennis balls.
the neck out, a green
tube of
flesh.
he's quiet
and calm, floating
with the debris
on a slimy log.
a smaller turtle is
beside him.
junior perhaps,
or just a little fellow
also resting,
saying little,
taking a nap. it's all
fine until a man walks by,
on his phone,
and spits in the water,
trying to get them to
move.
they don't. I do.