Shells

by Lee

The trail crosses a stream that runs
        east to west.

I glance at the water and alert to an oval – a shape
        out of context.
Inside an old shell, a boy excites:
        a capture to be made – coup to be counted!
                I approach the unknown in stealth.

Damn. . . .

A dead snapping turtle was not
        what I expected.
                Not what I hoped for.
                        Not what I needed to see
                                today.

Strong, fierce, resilient, primordial – and
        despite the best of camouflage and weaponry – defeated,
                underwater for good.
                        Claws, beak, armored shell: limp,        soft,        powerless,
                                rotting as the creek and life
                                        flow on.
        No sorrow,
                no simpatico,
                        save mine.

The trail crosses a stream that runs
        east to west.

~ ~ ~ ~

© Lee Samuels

Advertisements