Though the flags have been raised
to full staff, I choose black again today,
and dress in the shadows of morning.

The voice of public radio
speaks of crop dusters ordered down,
a possible chemical attack,
while my son pushes his trains 
around and around the living room.

I choose black today,
though the sun insists on color—
though it creeps over
each windowsill, negotiating
the folds of the house,
ascending the tablecloth 
to the planted roses and the half-burned candles
from last night’s dinner.

I gather Finn in his blue jacket,
buckle him into the stroller
and we bounce along the endless 
pebbles toward Lost Mountain Road.

A truck swooshes by, cut paper flag 
scotch taped to the passenger 
window, and I am startled by the noise,
half expecting an owl, a screech, some ominous sign.

“Car coming...Big one!” calls Finn,
his voice gathering me back to the world of gravel,
butterflies and a single Doug squirrel trilling in the distance. 

Then suddenly
near the left wheel of the stroller
the dark shape of a snake,
alive in the shadows of grass.

He moves quickly 
to the sunlit expanse of the road.
and we watch, noting the bright yellow stripes—
almost neon—that he carries on his black back.


We watch, even
as he slithers over the rough shine
of pavement, past the shadows
of mailboxes
and seedlings, even 
as he crosses
the dull yellow line.
He is not ominous. Not a symbol or a sign.

Just a small black snake
finding warmth
and a little luck 
on this September day

as he crosses to the refuge 
of tall grasses
on the other side.

He is not ominous, not cunning.
Simply small and dark.
Simply alive.

Copyright @2001 Kate Reavey