There are other interrupters, far craftier than I. Whether the turtles come through sunlight or, as is more likely, under the moon’s cool but sufficient light, raccoons follow. The turtles are scarcely done, scarcely gone, before the raccoons set their noses to the ground, and sniff, and discover, and dig, and devour, with rapacious and happy satisfaction. And still, every year, there are turtles enough in the ponds. As there are raccoons enough, sleeping the afternoons away high in the leafy trees.
