5 a.m. weekdays, I drive to the YMCA,
water-aerobicize in the pool’s deep end.
Same route each morning, but after
sixteen years of heading out the condo
community’s curved entrance, my heart
races when an oval boulder looms out of inky
black—standing on one end, poised to lunge.
In headlights, striations mirror overlapping
plates of an armadillo’s armor. Not sure
they’re this far north, but heard they’re on the move.  

Another morning, I thought the boulder a large turtle.
Its shell held a rough spot, scar of some trauma.
Giant tortoises can live 200 years, but can’t survive
in Kentucky. Alligator snapping turtles do dwell here.
Did it crawl out of our lake to lay eggs in grass?  

Strange, how our minds work. Even though I know
the boulder’s there, when my headlights flow
over it, I’m still surprised by the memory,
the wonder of what comes at us in the dark.