More about turtles in the deep garden shallow pond:
Contradictions?
Reptilian turtles with small, hidden eyes,
Whose voices are silent—only God hears their cries.
Their shells are their armor, shields on their backs,
Plates on their stomachs prevent most attacks.
Dark living fortresses, watchmen divine,
Asleep on flat pond rocks, under tall pines.
Turtles. A tale.
If one doesn’t look too closely, the verse somewhat resembles the shape of a turtle—a happy accident, a heavenly plan? If I could just secure the structure! Actually, I guess I did. I even added feet. And, the small poem retains its shape when I close the essay.
Now, the battle for the mailbox. I pulled down the mailbox door last Sunday, just checking in case there happened to be an anomaly, something delivered out of the ordinary, the power of habit. I stuck my cane in just in case there was a note hidden in the dark. My cane found some obstruction on the floor of the mailbox. I tugged and a red paper wasp flew out past me. I hauled my cane out and slammed the door shut. Wasps in the mailbox? Not good.
I retreated to the house, grabbed a flashlight and a can of long-distance wasp and hornet spray. Back at the mailbox, I cautiously lowered the door and peered within. About half a foot from the door sat a red paper wasp staring at me; there was a second one a little farther back. Disconcerting as it was to have a wasp staring directly at me, I stepped back and shot them both in the head. I watch TV, I know how to act in tight situations. Shoot them in the head and run! I ran. Another red paper wasp flew out and at me, but I was wearing my LL Bean, “no fly-zone” shirt and the wasp backed off. A third wasp? That shouldn’t have been. I waited for a few minutes, walked cautiously back to the mailbox and used the flashlight to peer into the darkness. Nothing, but I bent down, easier said than done lately, and saw a wasp nest about the size of my fist, hanging from the top of the mailbox, with wasps milling about on it. Good grief! I brought up the can and fired again, hitting the nest. I backed away again, for wasps were falling everywhere.
It turns out the wasps were getting in to the mailbox through four drainage holes, I guess, in the floor. I thought I had taken care of the problem, but the next day, when I looked into the white newspaper box next to the mailbox, there was a red paper wasp sitting about six inches from the front, watching me, just like the first one. I shot this one in the head too and the one standing behind him. Well, I am pleased to say that I managed to eradicate the wasps without getting stung, even though I had attacked in the daylight hours. The only problem is that now I feel guilty. The wasps weren’t especially aggressive, they were just going about their waspish business; I wiped them out. Co-existence would have been good, but sooner or later either I or the mailman would have disturbed them to the point of getting stung. Wasp stings are painful, extremely painful. That particular danger is gone, but I continue to check just in case they try again, and I continue to feel guilty, which I take to be a healthy response.
Finally, the bird feeders at night. We have raccoons attending to the feeders after hours; we have possums coming there; now we have two skunks. Oh my God! Two skunks in the backyard; two dogs in the house, wanting out. The skunks are rather lovely as we watch them from the window. One has a white head with a beautiful white “v” spreading out from its head down its back; the second one has a white tail. They haven’t been there together, but the one with the white tail was there last night. What happens next, only God knows.
The red paper wasp, poised like an F-18 Super Hornet (somewhat apt), armed for war. (Not my photo)
Mary says it’s name is Petunia; I think it should be Stinker!