I don't have the math
to calculate the odds,
how a sea turtle,
shell cracked,
flippers drooping,
could come so close,
only a sheet of glass
between us that day
on Jekyll Island.
He, an injured survivor
taking refuge
in a new home
and me, a survivor,
taking refuge in libraries,
nature sanctuaries
and museums.
Maybe the only survivor
in the nest, the turtle
followed the light
of the full moon,
enormous at its perigee,
to the ocean, passing others
who slipped and tired
in the shifting sands
or fell prey to seagulls.
I know the turtle’s mind,
the impulse to survive.
for I have lived long
in my sanctuaries,
I have lived to tell of it —
how the most stalwart
of living things will find
their way to light.