Black Snake
Often it would scare me–draped on the mower handle
or hiding underneath it–sometimes just its skin on the brick wall.
The dog would bark in high alert.
Coiled, it was prepared to strike. With the dog in the house,
I would escort it outside the fence with the rake.
But today, the dog did not bark, only the loud crash
of tubs, buckets and wood told me something was wrong.
He, shaking the lower half of the torn snake,
danced with pride in the yard.
I searched for the rest of the it, mangled in the dirt.
Its ripped lung fluttered like a red flag in the wind.
Tar River Poetry
Fall 2016
