Snakes in the Grass

Raking the buffalograss, I catch a little movement. I crouch down to look. Nothing. Poke my finger around. Then a liquid brown movement, a smooth undulating waveform, a delicate small snake. It raises its head a moment before spilling over the rocks to form its own quiet pool, away from rakes.

A few moments later, I find another little snake, unmoving. There are no marks on it and no ants. I can’t believe it’s dead. It must simply be torpid from the cold ground. I warm it in my hands. It slithers back and forth. But I can’t wake it from this last sleep. So, I curl the little body and place it under the leaf of a plant.

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The surface and beneath the surface