Snakes are curious creatures.
Rattlesnakes of course, in this country are dangerous.
And any of you who have had a close call
with a rattlesnake of course, you probably
are like me and have bad dreams about it every once in a while.
When I was going to University of California in Irvine,
we were in rather rural area and there
was alarm went out one day that the snakes were coming down
from the hills and of course they were.
I chuckled about this.
Fact, I killed one four footer that summer.
But anyway, this is the poem that gradually came out
of that situation.
It's called "Snakes".
The rattlesnakes have begun to come out.
Into the gardens, out of the mountains,
from the parched fields.
After water it is said, after mice.
The papers have announced it.
We find warnings tacked to our doors.
I think one gardener, a faithful servant,
has been bit stooping to tend a marigold.
And the child reported her hand horribly mangled.
The citizens have been armed, mothers
keep their brooms by the door, police carry shotguns.
But I have seen none.
Walking barefoot through the beds, checking the mulch,
behind lattices, even rabbit burrows,
I have never been harmed.
But last night fidgeting, I awoke dizzy to sweet music.
Outside on the lawn, the road, the house tops,
our flower beds were full of them almost erect.
Their thin necks swaying toward the moon,
humming, smiling, sensuous, drinking in the light,
while others sped back and forth on great rice paper wings,
carrying messages across the cloudless night.