than a one-night rest. When they go down in the 

 ground, they go down in boxes, for good, and on- 

 ly with the help of others standing round. Peering 

 into the darkness of the cold earth they fear. 



To humans, in and out are matters of life and 

 death. Not to me. Warm earth waits just beneath 

 me, the planet's viscous, scalding core. It takes a 

 cool blood to feel that warmth, here at its circum- 

 ference. The humans' own heat keeps them from 

 sensing it. I drift for months — year's great night — 

 floating on the outer edge of Earth's corona. The 

 only calendar my blood, how it drugs me. 



When autumn pinches, I dig. Stroke on one 

 side. Stroke on the other. Slow as the hour-hand 

 and just as relentless. Swimming in place, burrow- 

 ing my body's length and depth. Ease in, out, ad- 

 just the fit. No rush. No rush. A last fitting. Air 

 hole open. Stow legs. Retreat under roof of self. 

 Under vault of ribs and spine. 



Loose earth covers my back. Laurel leaves, wal- 

 nut leaves, chalk soil, Dorton mould. I wait, then 

 cease to wait. Earth rolls repeatedly through day 

 and night. Layer of rime. The frost binds. Then 

 snow, that friendly meteor. Kindly mantle of in- 

 fant vegetation. Insulating all of us who cling to 



the soil. Who have not got too upright, too far 

 from the native horizontal. 



c;^ rouse before I know I'm rousing. Hatched 

 Xy from the great egg of Earth. I bHnk and 

 bhnk. Surprised to come up always just where I 

 went down. To be the only hatchhng. Surprised 

 to find myself in the parish of Selborne, county of 

 Southampton, garden of Mr. Gilbert White. 



In this place, I am considered a sign of spring. 

 Year after year Mr. Gilbert White notes the occa- 

 sion. Records the date, the weather. Conjunction, 

 at my arrival, of a bat, a redstart, a daffodil, a 

 troop of shell-snails. 



"Timothy the tortoise begins to stir," he writes; 

 "he heaves up the mould that lies over his back." 



Yes, the mould sometimes clings to my back as 

 I rise in April. Mr. Gilbert White writes to 

 nephew Samuel Barker. 



"When a man first rouses himself from a deep 

 sleep, he does not look very wise; but nothing can 

 be more squalid and stupid than our friend, when 

 he first comes crawling out of his hibernacula." 



Who watches Mr. Gilbert White the curate 

 wake? How wise does he look at bed-break? 



Late on summer nights he comes into the 

 garden. To see if the bat still flies. To observe by 

 candle-light what moths and earwigs do in the 

 dark. He clasps together the waist of a coat 

 thrown over his open shirt. Hiding the animal 

 within. Bare calves beneath, spindles of flesh. He 

 does not look very wise, tossing stones into the 

 hedge to make the sedge-bird sing its night song. 



he humans talk to me. Talk and talk! They 

 *^ say what they think I'll understand. Hail me 

 from a distance as though I were an unexcitable 

 dog. Ask my thoughts about the barley, the wheat, 

 the hops. About the weather down here. Forget 

 themselves and keep talking. Remember them- 

 selves, pretend not to be talking. I keep my words 

 hidden in the prow ot my skull. 



Mrs. John Wliite crops vegetables for the kitchen. 

 The curate's widowed sister-in-law. Cuts flowers for 

 the table. Apologizes if she comes upon me meditat- 

 ing in the foliage. Stoops beside me. Lays a warm 

 hand on my shell. A gentle touch. If I look up at her 

 and say, "Now, then" — what comes next? 



Mr. Ralph Churton, rector of Middlcton 

 Cheney, pays a summertime visit. 



"Behold, the philosophic Timothy!" he says in 

 passing. Raising an arm in salutation. 



"Behold, the philosophic (^burton!" I might 

 say in return. 



My voice would shatter his human solitude. Tlie 



February 2006 NAXVR W nisiOKY 43 



