toward me as the down of a duckling
laying softly by its mother, ensconced
only in its dreams and the warmth
of the afternoon sun that shone upon

it to coat its little fuzziness. It’s been
a fourteen-year journey breaking out of
that tough shell. There were times we both
thought we’d never make it. You left to

gather yourself. And I felt unprotected
by the elements, unhatched with no blanket
and just the memory of what covered me.  And I
stopped growing inside. Days into nights, and

nights turned into years. And somehow or
other you kept coming back to the nest, not leaving
it for the turtle’s dinner or to rot on its own and
become deformed, or freeze under the December

snow or get crushed by a passerby if it rolled
off, taken by the wind. We looked at each other
as if this was the beginning. What a strange feeling
for the both of us.