NEWS

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The Rat Snake

slithered onto the patio from the open drain,
crossed the bricks and wound round
the wicker chairs and around the statue
of St. Francis. I watched it curl and coil itself,
scroll up the olive tree—and use a branch for a bridge
to the crook of the gutter's drainpipe.

Here, baby birds, three downy heads in their nest
of tiny leaves and delicate blossoms
chirped, open mouthed—mother, father feeding them.

Until frantic swooping and diving, the parent birds
calling and calling sharp and shrill. Three baby birds
now like three ping pong balls shoved in a wet black sock.

One last dirge from the parent birds. They have flown
away. Their nest holds a skinny, skinny rat snake
partly in and partly out of coil, anchored
by its indigestion of swallowed babies. Its tail
dangles like a dirty kite string; its thin reaching neck
juts up and down, its tongue licking, tasting the air.

And so it hung for the rest of the day. I did not see
it leaving. The patio, the olive tree, the nest in the crook
of the gutter all silent now. Beyond empty.