The other side of rain

The other side of rain

When we stopped for turtles
crossing the county road,
steaming after a late June shower,
they were surprised to be
suddenly airborne
in our hands and relieved
of the earth's water
that held them to land.
We put them on the back floor
of the carpeted earth,
and waited for them to open
in the new world. Box turtles
rounded into a fist as large
as our grandfather's. Soon
the car's momentum
called them from their shells.
Their brown speckled claws
emerged and found traction
in the grassy carpet, and forward
they went, looking to hide
under the Mercedes's front seat
until wedged between two worlds.

Much later, lured by lettuce
and canned dog food, they roamed
the back yard and eyed the goldfish pond
greedily. They would play hide and tag
with Precious, the Llewellyn setter
who never understood how rocks
could suddenly have legs, and bite back.