The snake coils in the sun,
spectacles sheathing her eyes,
trunk warming against the earth.
They say she feels nothing,
only the hiss of hunger,
the strike of instinct.
But watch—
how she lingers where the light is softest,
how she curves herself into the shape of what she trusts,
how she returns, again, to nest in the mesquite.
The crow does not speak...
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