Notes About The Poem
The forest is a tapestry of camouflage, scent, and vibration—a world hidden from human eyes until we choose to intrude. Through the lenses of hunter and hunted, this narrative captures a fleeting encounter in the early summer heat, tracing the descent from high-alert survival to a final, silent stillness.
The Human and the Serpent
The Human:
The early summer morning breaks in green,
Where bluebells nod beneath a shifting screen,
And cardinal flowers bleed their brilliant red,
With swampy milkweed on a sprawling bed
Of Golden Ragwort, endless and alive,
Where nesting birds and humming insects thrive.
I step into this wild, untamed design,
In search of an indigenous ophidian line.
A serpent born of copper-red and bronze,
Concealed beneath the heavy forest fronds.
Its pale tan scales, of gray and pinkish-brown,
Are overlaid where chestnut bands come down.
These dark brown markings taper, twist, and meet
To forge an hourglass pattern at my feet.
It blends completely with the ground's decay,
Where amber, coffee, and copper leaf-piles lay,
As motionless as skeletal deadfalls spread,
A living wire resting with the dead.
I sense the presence, heavy in the air,
A silent phantom waiting in its lair.
I step too close; the stillness breaks in sound,
A frantic whirring rattles near the ground.
Defensive tail vibrations strike the leaves,
A warning buzz the heavy air receives.
I home in on the rhythm of the shake,
And fix my eyes upon the coiled snake.
A flawless specimen of lethal grace,
Freezing its form within the shaded space.
It pulls its head back, looping into tight,
Compressed 'S' curves to maximize its might.
The tail keeps vibrating, the warning clear,
Its eyes locked on the danger drawing near.
Unending focus guides its hidden gaze,
As targeting begins through summer's haze.
I make my move, deceptively and slow,
So still my forward steps barely show.
I lift my striker, hover near the crown,
And center the precision of the blow.
A crack of blunt force trauma splits the air,
An instant reflex recoils in despair.
The coppery head collapses from the sound,
As yellow venom spills upon the ground,
And mixes with the dark and coffee clay,
Where golden ragwort blooms in bright array.
The body writhes as if it still can see,
Twisting and rolling rapid, frantically.
It rolls repeatedly across the moss,
In wild convulsions of a sudden loss,
Until the lashing muscles start to slow,
And life retards its final, violent throw.
I lift the heavy serpent by the tail,
And drop it down into the canvas veil,
Securing it within the burlap space—
A fine, tanned leather from a hidden place.
The Serpent:
The damp, cool floor of early summer glows
Through infrared, where pulsing heat-maps loom;
Above my head, the scent of bluebell blows,
And Golden Ragwort lights the forest gloom.
I lie suspended in a dream of stone,
My bronze skin melted into amber rust,
As still as skeletal deadfalls, left alone,
A quiet shadow pressed against the dust.
Then through the earth, a rhythmic thunder wakes,
Heavy and close, it shakes my copper crown;
The shifting dirt beneath the footprint breaks,
And thermal shadows suddenly cast down.
The camouflage of chestnut bands is blown;
My resting coil tightens to a spring.
The threat has breached the borders of my zone,
And primitive alarms begin to ring.
I pull my head into a tight, sharp 'S',
Compressing muscle, loading up the strike;
My tail vibrates in frantic, mad distress,
Buzzing the dry leaves like a rattling pike.
Through pit-gland slits, I target and I trace
The towering form that blocks the morning light,
Locking my senses on the changing space,
Unfurling fangs to ready for the fight.
But no heat moves—the shadow freezes dead,
Deceiving eyes that track by speed and pace;
A sudden silhouette looms overhead,
And drops with blinding fury on my face.
A crack of lightning shatters through my skull,
Blunt trauma breaking down the copper shield;
My striking reflex shortens, crushed and dull,
As consciousness dissolves upon the field.
The venom flows, a useless, yellow stain,
Spilling to mix with coffee-colored clay;
My nerves convulse in automatic pain,
Twisting and rolling where the mosses lay.
In rapid, frantic loops, my body rolls,
A mindless squirming as the world goes black,
Until the fading, dying motion tolls,
And darkness lifts me to the burlap sack.
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