Turds: On Barely Avoiding One in the Grass

I think I've not seen flower nor bird
which moved me as did that fine turd.

A turd in hue of brown and tan,
it coiled in grass where my dog ran.

Its grandeur suggested that of Alsatian,
a Labradoodle, or Dalmatian.

I chanced to see it, as down I glanced,
and breathed a thank-you as back I danced.

For had I walked without a care,
I'd not have seen it lying there.

The gloom that did downcast my eyes
revealed to me that shrine of flies.

My spirits then were so upraised,
I wrote this verse to this thing's praise:

This universe was made by God, I've heard,
but anyone can make a turd.

by A.J. Dillon-Davis

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A.J. Dillon-Davis worked for almost 40 years as an announcer-producer at CKUA radio in Edmonton, Alberta. Now retired, he lives in Victoria, B.C., known by some as "home of the newly wed, and nearly dead." With "Turds", he loses his poetry publishing virginity.