On the sun-baked back of a fallen tree,
leaning well into the lake,
thirty-two turtles along its length,
stretched out like bells in a carillon,
from wee-littlest to next-little to less-little
through maybe-medium, on up to the grand, rotund
All are facing the same way; only seldom does any one budge.
And why should they? They bask in Turtletude.
Contemplating all this, sagely from the shore,
at last I beam at them this thought-balloon:
“Carry on, gentlemen; carry on.”