Turtle Time

by Rebecca Ramsden

We move slowly through deep snow
with the dog team pulling the sled 
like a portable plastron, 
carapace of canvas 
stretched over our supplies.
Forgotten are the hands of the clock 
ticking,
the digital flash of running numbers.
Time bends with the 
sway of nodding branches,
Isn’t it like the hills to 
rise from the lake, 
take pride in their abundance.
it’s face of cedar and pine spared, 
not yet leveled in what some call 
the name of progress. Here 
creatures can move from pond to pond 
unharmed from vehicle wheels, 
the human voltage to-get-there.
What if being human meant 
we learned quicker, 
destroyed little, 
quit pretending we are separate.  
Humans want to fly, 
to run, to not look back,
quickly lose interest in the s l o w 
dig of worm and beetle.
Even now our boots 
pass over the dank chatter 
of mycelium, nature’s party line 
networking the tangle of tree roots.  
Panting dogs need a break,
we pause, noses up,
breathe in the boreal forest, 
taste a belonging with the land, 
while turtle sleeps 
snug in earth mother’s mud.