We became artists at the same time.  We were tiny, timid critters hurtling towards the shore of representation  I thought she might not make it – she was very small — and I feared the birds, falcons, eagles would grab her,. But she ducked, retracted her head and limbs (reptiles know how to hide). I ran in adult name only towards the water rebirth.  Made it.  We separated, reunited, separated again, swam in different directions.  In our small round minds:  the same stretch of beach where the hatchlings struggle to outlive the slow run to the wetness.  She made a box, I made a poem about turtles.  We saw about them on TV.

We held each other trembling in the goo that’s called survival.

(Copyright, Stephanie Barbe Hammer, 10/14/2012)