The Strength of Nature By April Ridge

You know, sometimes 

I will get really frustrated with life,

thinking back to times when 

things seemed easier for me.

They weren't necessarily easier. 

I think that once enough time 

has passed 

from a period in life, 

that you're likely to 

elaborate your memories:

to glamorize,

to blur the suffering; 

the trials of time that 

you may have experienced then,

because your current situation 

strikes so loudly within.

In these times 

where I feel hopeless

I try to recall the strength of nature.

The turtle I witnessed 

crossing a six lane highway 

a couple of summers ago:

the fastest I have ever 

seen a turtle move. 

I like to imagine 

his or her little face, 

taut with tension:

little turtle teeth 

gritted against the odds, 

little turtle arms and legs 

flapping maniacally against hot asphalt.

I never saw it complete its journey, 

but it was in the lane 

closest to the shoulder.

The odds are six to one. 

For days afterward,

on the way home 

I would look in that area 

to see if the turtle had made it. 

I celebrated in a small victory 

each time

I did not see 

a broken turtle shell 

askew 

on the side of the highway.

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.