The Rush of Turtles, The Pause of Magic

struck by windblown
Snickers wrappers, the turtle
lands, his feet splayed upward
and writhing like a mystic
bowling ball gathering moss
yet spinning, spinning,
on his carapace.

no cars yet, but he feels the passion,
the urgings to bounce, to
leave the scene, to rectify
his upward tilt.

hot asphalt singes his plastron,
neck straining against
relentless sun.

no birds stop to chirp,
no crows call yet, but
they squawk from berried shrubs,
their beaks poised
to poke out eyes.

another near miss, a young boy
in a pick-me-up, his
swerve leaves fifteen feet
of rubber, then straightens into
the distance.

that magic moment
heaves the air
and catapults carapace, bleeding
toes, and neck-ached turtle
right-side up and his
tail is the last thing seen
skittering back through
the grass.