The afternoon hums with the syrupy weight of summer.
Sunlight drips through the leaves in golden rivers, pooling across the mossy trail where the turtles march.
One by one, tiny legs paddle the earth, shells glinting like polished stones under the lazy sun.
A grand procession of ancient patience, of deliberate wonder, moving without urgency but with absolute purpose.
Some wear little crowns of fallen petals.
One carries a feather stuck to its back like a forgotten cape.
Another pauses beside a dandelion and watches the seeds lift into the air like tiny wishes.
Children’s laughter ripples from somewhere out of sight, caught in the breeze.
Dragonflies dart overhead like living gems.
The whole forest holds its breath, reverent, as the slow parade continues.
They move forward, carried by the kind of certainty that feels like a secret the rest of the world forgot.
Watching them disappear between the trees,
it is impossible to believe anything bad could ever exist at all.
Discussion about this post
No posts
Love the way you describe the turtle looking up at a dandelion. The slow parade is perfect. They resemble scattered and viridescent stones