And I want to read now Theodore Roethke's poem called "Snake."
I saw a young snake glide out of the mottled shade
and hang limp on a stone.
A thin mouth and a tongue stayed in the still air.
It turned, it drew away.
Its shadow bent in half, it quickened and was gone.
I felt my slow blood warm.
I longed to be that thing, the pure sensuous form.
And I may be some time.