As I messed around with a compound bow and arrow,
Getting the hang of aiming the dang thing,
An armadillo walked into the path. Releasing
The bow, I flushed with regret, shame, and panic.
Armadillos don’t hurt anyone.
They shuffle through life slowly,
Just taking things one at a time.
They don’t move fast, but this one vanished.
To my relief, I found the arrow
But no sign of the living target,
No corpse, no blood, no condemnation.
My reprieve was born only of moral luck.
This may be evidence that I needed to improve
My aim, but I never tried, never practiced.
Some people consider armadillos pests,
Because of what they do to gardens,
But I’m happy to let them forage around
For whatever they can find in the soil.
I’m happy to let them just get on with life
Because one once restored my soul.