|
| |
Snake
The snake slips through its own ribs.
It surges away accelerating within its length,
a self-winding mind
pumped through muscular hoops.
A sharpshooting tongue flicks, drilling space,
muscular chains propel scaly flanks.
That elongated, rippling cage,
creates side-winder tractor-prints,
a pattern
etched on the surface
of its underbelly belly.
Its swift purpose now
is to out-speed the threat of my eyes.
I kick some dust up,
the serpent freezes,
then turns to face,
not seeing but tasting,
a scent that could be
the enticing blood-heat of a rabbit,
or the stabbing beak of an eagle,
yet it hesitates, sensing
something alien, different.
If it had shoulders, It would have shrugged,
Instead, I shrug for it,
then walk quickly away.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
|
|