Just as when I drove into Louisiana early in the month, today there were dead turtles at the asphalt edges along Interstate 10. They’re such a sad sight, the shells like broken bowls.

The turtle has survived thousands of years without much change in design because the design has been so successful against most predators. However, the evolution of the automobile trumps the ancient turtle. Turtle never wins against a speeding vehicle.

We were heading to visit the cemetary in Estherwood. Not even half a mile from Bayou Plaquemines, it’s a very peaceful place, surrounded by woods, field and an empty street.

The sun was very yellow. The air heavy and heated. An egret winged over. An orange dragonfly, a small butterfly. A pileated woodpecker loudly clucked as it scaled a large snag.

We wandered among the graves seeking the names of relatives. One grave that attracted me, though, was that of Della Dupont Myers, no kin. She lived from March 13, 1919 to sometime late in the 1990s. Unlike most of the stones with crosses or praying hands, hers was etched with roses. Under her name, it read : “Mom.” And, on top of the concrete slab weighting her grave were two heavy turtle statues, a large and a small, at irregular angles.

To my surprise, the turtles weren’t attached. I moved the smaller one to follow the larger at a more pleasing diagonal, their necks cocked at similar angles now, as though they were both curious to examine any visitors to Della’s grave.

I felt a connection to Della. She didn’t seem very dead at all. I wrote down her name in my little notebook before I started the car engine to leave.

As we drove out of town, a turtle was crossing the main road, near the center stripe. Its head was arched high, its legs making good time, unless you compared it to the cars and trucks.

There hadn’t been much traffic before, but now cars were approaching from both directions. Here was a chance, after all of those broken shells along the freeway, to forestall, perhaps prevent, one similar fate.

A truck from behind seemed impatient that I pulled over. Most cars back in central Texas would just pause until you’d carried off a turtle. Some drivers would get out of the car and beat you to the rescue, or ask to see the turtle. Not this fellow. I feared he’d crush the turtle out of spite or haste, but he just straddled it between the wheels, and roared away. The turtle spun, but did not get hurt.

It was a red-eared slider and not a snapper (which scares me). This turtle was prettier than those we rescued over the years along Fitzhugh and in Dripping Springs. Its shell was a dark dark green. It looked shining and healthy. The head was very friendly-looking and handsome; it retracted into the shell when I bent down. I carried the turtle to the side of the road it was originally facing, and placed it going downward toward not too distant water.

I suspect Della was pleased.