The turtle, but one four-legged friend.

I saw a turtle crossing the blacktop.  It saw me, and its head pulled inside the shell, away from the specter of any possible mischief: me.  I thought to myself too, the dog circling the thing, as a turtle to the traversing, am I to God, perhaps.

If I looked into the occlusion of the woods, I would find it self-evident that God exists, and I would find it that any occurence that happened naturally was not only good, and providential, but natural and not so much elapses outside of that boundary.  And if so, if otherwise, who can say?

I looked at the scrub growth in the odd transition between forest and yard; it was haphazard, obscure and at once also roughshod; what seems the random happening in nature, the faithful say, is connected to God, others yet, pantheists, say it IS God.

Providence came to the turtle as he crossed the hot pavement to the cool of the wood, and the dog came away perplexed, but had to follow his boy, did the dog, following the Boy, his friend.

I stared the turtle in its black little eyes, its thick skin, its obstinate, huge, set mouth.  I watched the thing try to right itself.  By that time, it had dog slobber on its back, with the dog having the idea to take the whole thing in its jaws and shake it, but to no avail: it was too large for that.  It jutted an arm to right itself, re-orient towards the opposite wood, but to no avail then either, because of the dog's nudging with his nose.  The youngling dog come close to smell of the thing, to get the turtle's scent, and fractions of degrees, each nudge turned the turtle away from its intention.....