The Little Marsh King

I sit in my car on an old bridge painted white. the stream passes under as I wait for the light an old turtle suns itself on a rock near the bank this turtle is my touchstone if I may be so frank when ever I cross this bridge he is always there looking stoic unencumbered and without a care as ducks circle the thrown of this little marsh king the stream flows the day wanes he wants not a thing he hardly moves at all with his nose high in the air there’s a smile on that face with the know it all stare on occasion as I happen to be waiting for the light I turn to find him looking right at me what a sight what a strange feeling it’s like he’s in my head telling me to take care ease up or I’ll drop dead I realize that life has a rhythm but we set the pace life is for living and it doesn’t have to be a race