Turtle Turtle lies on his favourite rock On the bank of a stream Early one morn, late in his seventy-seventh summer, Blinking his eyes slowly As cloud shadows drift by and Weary trees sway In the first breath of Autumn Full from summer feasting Turtle ignores the Dead trout by his nose, Thinking about crawling Into his muddy bed For one more long sleep, dark Beneath a roof of ice Once he has gathered Full measure of Sunlight
One of my favorites, Bob!