The Sea Turtle

Shoulder-deep in the sea turtle’s nest,

I search for remains, nothing alive.

The tiny turtles would have climbed

over each other, forming a living ladder

out of their sandy birth canal

leaving only the unhatched and dead behind.

Mongoose would have gotten any stragglers.

I am here only to count egg shells.

My hand reaches bottom and scoops up

sand and bits of leathery shells. In their midst,

I find a black soft lump, a hatchling left behind.

It remains listless until I gently stroke its belly

until its life flickers and catches hold

as a flame lays claim to a

candle wick.

It doesn’t have much of a chance.

Pelicans already circle. But waiting until night

so it can follow the moon to the

water is a death sentence too. I place it on

the sloping beach and whisper a prayer.

Without a backward glance

it paddles towards the water.

The waves are merciless,

cartwheeling it in the foam.

Head over tail. Head over tail.

But it finds a current and starts its slow

submerged swim, a speck in the sea.

Too far in to return, the turtle breaks the

glimmering surface and takes its first

sea-borne breath.