Our old friend, Mac Davis, understood the great questions of life from the point of view of the lovely box turtle: the universe is made up of towering blades of grass, rustling leaves, rivulets of warm water, and on rare occasions, the sudden appearance of a dry hot plain, populated by erratic roaring devils, behemoths designed to crush turtles, specifically, into nothingness. There comes a time in every box turtle's life when this hellish drama appears and must be negotiated.
This morning, just past the country store, a turtle teetered on the edge of eternity, on the shoulder of the road, looking across the five lanes. I pulled over, and so did good neighbor Keith. I imparted a few of the basic principles of Box Turtle Theology, as we imperfectly understand the creed. When I reached down, the turtle instantly pulled in legs and head, clamping upper and lower shells together, and looking for all the world like a charming jewelbox. Not an unreasonable reaction to impending revelation.
Then I, the Hand of God, instrument of salvation, put him up on the bank, pointing back towards his small kingdom of grass and trees, and I , the Hand of God, climbed into my dusty van, picked up the cooling coffee cup, and headed back to my own familiar world.
Consider this a small bit of hagiography, a nod into the eternal computing cloud for Mac Davis, through whom a bit of eternity, if only for turtles, has been revealed.