Just past dawn I come upon a turtle laying eggs
in a hole she has made next to the tar path.
I join the gawkers, two holding back dogs on taut leashes.
The turtle uses her strong back legs to move dirt
she can’t see, to cover eggs spilled from her purse.
She moves slowly, precisely, returning the sandy soil
she unearthed earlier. I question her location.
But who am I to judge an animal struggling to live
here, where we humans have altered the terrain
and air?
And isn’t it about odds? Each turtle lays many eggs
so that one might survive.
She moves with certainty, though a fox or a coyote
might feast on her eggs tonight. Or an untethered dog
or a racoon may find them tomorrow. Having covered her eggs,
the turtle begins walking slowly toward the creek.
I watch her depart, her hard-shell house wobbling
side-to-side. Not once does she glance back at the mound
of dirt she leaves behind, while I live like Orpheus,
always looking back, doubting every turn.
—
Mary Junge lives and writes in Minnesota. Her poems have been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies. She has published three books of poetry: Express Train (Pudding House Publications); Pilgrim Eye (Laurel Poetry Collective); Creatures of Promise (Kelsay Books, April 2024).
