Turtle Pond

They rest on floating logs, lengthening 
their necks in the sun, awkward feet 
considering each step. My niece 
 
bends down to play in the olive-green 
water with its islands of algae, 
asks her mother where the turtles go 
 
in winter. She tells her they sleep 
under the snow. I imagine mother and child 
walking these hills together
 
through sagebrush and pine, this pond 
encased with ice, the turtles beneath 
fast asleep—the same place grief goes, 
 
burrowed in the mud of us. 
She has my reddish curls, my niece, 
is sometimes a ghost calling me 
 
Auntie, running toward me 
or away, like the child I miscarried—
maybe a daughter, too early to know.
 
Starlings trill. Crickets whir like watches
in the blonde grass. Ducks bicker 
over bugs and weeds. But the turtles 
 
are silent, at least to us. 
When they slip into the water, 
only their heads and stenciled shells 
 
are visible, struggle of their legs
below the surface. My niece reaches out 
as one paddles toward us—
 
close enough to see the threads
of yellow on its face and neck—almost 
close enough to touch.