Whether snapping, painted, softshell, turtles grace the soggy scene;
Lugging shells around the water like some upside-down tureen.
Basking on a sunken log, they’re decals of the summer;
They look at us with wise old eyes that brand us a newcomer.
And in return we capture them to make distinctive soup;
Those who trap the creatures and the ones sworn to protect
Squabble over quotas like some sanguinary sect.
But if you asked the turtle, then I think that you would find
That thinking of such folderol, it’s really disinclined.
Finding worms and minnows, or a patch of ripe duckweed