Robbing the Nest

I had survived how many summers? Five? Six? 'til, self-taught, I learned at last of terror that lurks in situations which those I trust (myself included) would swear offer only perfect safety... My ball rolled under my Grandma's house and I, well-guarded, scuttered after to retrieve it, mindless of the tarry soil fleeced with fluffy, small red feathers, newly molted by matrons: hens that clucked contentment, set upon their hidden egg troves. Spying their nests, I thought to rob them and so earn a Grandma's love for a city boy unversed in country ways. Thinking, I acted, reaching for a nest unoccupied, half hid behind a house block. I closed my soft, expectant hand upon a wriggling creature coiled among the eggs, drew back like lightning to watch a brightly spotted snake slide off into the farther, deeper darkness amid a squall of squawks. Emerging empty handed, terrified, it wasn't Grandma's love I earned that day. I have always since encountered similar brilliant colored dangers whenever I have thought to grab, for myself or others, unclaimed treasures in strange places, in warmer or in cooler weathers.