(Contacts)

Downward—down the hill… The slope works its will— across a rock— which knocks Him over— up righting Himself— without others’ help— there—a lone patch of clover provides Him the energy to crawl on along— not knowing exactly where he belongs… He encounters a limb—which hassles, hurts, and hinders Him… Crossing this, He slides into a hole— from the other side, He did not know it was there— so very unfair… He stares upwards—pushing, scratching, and scraping— sliding, slipping, clawing—eventually escaping… At a snail’s pace—onward—He plods, and stumbles— No—honestly—He is a humble Turtle— who rambles, and amble— through the leaves, and brambles— all is a hurdle— whether vines, or myrtle— the Forest floor’s a jungle… It batters, and entangles

Him—He clutches, and clatters— pushing bunches of decayed matter— lunging—lopsidedly side-to-side— finally into the creek he slides… The water cools Him—He drinks— He blinks, and thinks— “ Where am I really going ? “… He splashes, and sinks—shoveling on across the shallow creek— and creeps—and slightly sinks in the moist sand and mud… He is wet, and crusted with crud… He forages, and forces Himself— fighting further on ahead—until… Night arrives—stealing his sight, and will… Feeling old and frail—He stops— no longer hale—poignantly pale— receding back into His shell— His time has come—all is silent, and still… The Tortoise Life— His tale is, of course, full of strife, and travail… His Trail –carried out in His shell— might point to that Path of so many a man as well… MECLONCS/2003