This moment demands my attention. Tiny turtles,
vulnerable as polar bears, bubble up from their sandy
womb, struggle towards light borrowed from the moon,
dropped onto the sea.

I spend so much time surrounded by concrete, cars,
and catastrophe that birth in the wild startles, like the moment
fine wine trips over the tongue and without instruction,
awakens the palette.

Human tragedy tramples parts of the world I can’t find on a map
and places I can drive to—just down the road where home-grown
shooters kill en masse, shielded by the 2nd Amendment.
Just look away, perhaps pray. . .

but first, smell the night’s salty beach, the last safe
haven for these new babies, their brave little hearts
pounding as they drag themselves towards floods
and mayhem and humans who kill for the thrill.

Marsha Owens is a retired teacher who lives and writes in Richmond, Va. Her work has appeared in both print and online publications including The Sun, Huffington Post, Dead Mule, and Streetlight Anthology. She co-edited the poetry anthology, Lingering in the Margins, and her chapbook, She Watered Her Flowers in the Morning, is available at Finishing Line Press.