Terrapins

reeds

still grow

in the suburbs

where diggers delve and scrape

in hope of more houses. Quiet ditch-water

seeps past terrapins, mud-shelled in the sun, pinstripe-limbed, craning. A bluish bird twitches through

green stems and Coke cans, dropped from Africa to this street like moonrock on ice cream, still

 feeling the gist of the wetland that was.  Reaching, humbug-

legged, a terrapin wets its caked shell and swims through

sliding green dish-water.  Each leg kicks solo against the current.

Dead fish floats and disappears down wrinkled reptile throat.  Overlooked by empty houses,

a preoccupied old man is dragging firewood up the bank above squelching glassy-eyed

bath-toy frogs, scattered like litter in the ditch

where reeds

grow

still.