All fall you wait for the eggs to hatch, for the sight of a small carapace scraping free. She laid them far from water in a hole beside our drive. Now when water from rain carves ruts, you think about eggs in October earth. How little a carapace can protect. How bones lie bare beneath, thin and white as fools. How far from water we all are, huddled in our tight eggs. Worcester Review Vol. 39 Fall 2018