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Lying halfway across the path,
there was nothing
to alert the eye or hint 
it was anything but a discarded
length of rope. 
Then, approaching closer, 
I saw it move.
A sudden bend gave form
to a body, a blunt head
flicking out a tongue, 
the unmistakable profile of a snake.

At first it seemed sluggish, slow
to move from my way
as if the overnight cool
still thickened its blood. 
It did not budge but kept
to its space, tightening 
into itself as if compressing
an internal spring. I felt the focus
of its unblinking eyes, 
being sized and measured
somewhere in the targeting
sights of its brain.

I kept still, the distance between us
charged with tension, paired
to every muscle and tingling
sense. I waited, 
diving deep into the imagined 
intent gripping the mind 
of the other, until it turned
and slithered away
into the long grass and memory.

For most, snakes belong
to nightmare with death loaded
fangs that wait in ambush 
or are readied to strike 
the careless foot or heel
of some unsuspecting hiker.
They dribble their potent brew
into the arteries of our sleep.
They are the stuff of myth,
dark inhabitants of our unconscious 
carrying what we fear, 
the primitive, unfathomable parts
of ourselves. This morning
I saw mine come alive and stare
at me before crawling off,
back inside.

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