In Wellfleet Bay, cold-stunned turtles
drift on the surface of the sea, Christ-like,
no less miraculous. We’re due for this lesson:
slowing down when we feel overwhelmed.
Stopping is an answer if only because
it’s all we can do. Wait to be rescued. 
Dark shadows patrolling the shore need
to believe they can do some good.
What is the sea, otherwise, but the crash
and roar of abyss beside them—what, even,
the cold light of dawn without the weight of
something with a heart still beating, still 
breathing in their hands. Something they can 
save, and set on its way, that they, too,
now multiplied, can go on.