In twilight’s hush, they softly tread,

With armored grace and curious head.

No trumpet sounds, no grand parade,

Just humble work in earth’s cascade.

They dig and snuffle, never loud,

A gentle soul beneath a shroud.

Their paws disturb the sleeping clay,

To chase the pests and clear the way.

No boast, no bark, no need to fight,

Just faithful service in the night.

A gardener cloaked in plated skin,

With quiet strength that dwells within.

I love them for their odd design,

Their sacred task, their steady line.

They teach me how to walk unseen,

To serve with joy, and keep things clean.

So bless the ones who roam and root,

With armored backs and padded boot.

They preach a gospel low and still,

The holy work of Armadillo.