I found myself awake early this morning–before James! Madness!–and went out and did some weeding, and dumped a few more things in the ground. (From next door, shasta daisies, echniacea, and another indeterminate yellow thing with leaves like a black eyed susan and a head like a marigold, from the nursery black snakeroot and the prairie winecup.)
Along the way, I tripped over another of Mother Terrapin’s minions. This little fellow was a little smaller than a paperback book (although much thicker, obviously–a Robert Jordan sized book, let’s say.) I picked him up and he clammed up so tight he was practically hermetically sealed. Had I wanted to put my ear next to the shell of a small biting creature, I fancy I could have heard the hiss of the airlock closing. He was, of course, the eastern box turtle.
Since James is mowing today, I moved the little fellow over to the back yard. Having read about turtles after the last one, I now hate to move ’em, but I figure a journey of twenty yards is preferable to an encounter with Mr. Lawn Mower. He’s welcome to live on the property, or lay eggs, or whatever he (or she) desires, of course, but he’s probably just passing through to someplace else.
So that was kind’ve a neat way to start the morning.
