1
Seven snapping turtles laze,
their love-convention over.
Plastron to plastron, they tense.
Nearby, one digs in soft sand.
Fox slinks into Darby Creek’s maze,
kits needing meat. Eggs will do.
2
And what do they sense? Hunger?
Hormone surges? Electrons?
If they were to self-reflect—
Wearied. What more can we give?
We are among the elect.
Some must die so we may live.
