I have seen snakes wrapped in themselves and the sun, but very little else.

Somewhere in my canyon, I am sure of it,
each day an unsuspecting eye fails
to see the coil of snake and just one prick
of time, like a ripped off bandaid
in reverse, has that black bead desperately
trembling. The poor creature’s last
movement is involuntary, and in the end
it sits living but motionless to be swallowed.
This is what the canyon’s silence tells me,
there is danger in stillness, a crying out.
The snake’s rattle evolved
as the snake began to understand
how dangerous he was. He didn’t
want to hurt anything he didn’t
have to hurt, and so the rattle
grew kindly at its tail.


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