THE COPPERHEAD

5 5 R T H E C O P P E R H E A D P A T R I C I A H O O P E R Coiled like a vine along the lower wall, it seemed to be the vine: then it moved a little, its orange head lifted, body a rope of silk, the hourglass bands around it like a bracelet. I stepped back for the shovel. When I thrust it down, the viper slid – the thinnest sound – straight for my leg. But first it hesitated • not long enough to see the rim of trees, to see the houses leaning toward the hills, to see the hills far o√, the gray-blue mountain, to see the pink crape myrtle in the yard, to see the front porch with its pail of berries, to see my knees, blue-stained from berry picking, to see the bare skin shining at my ankle, to see, if it sees at all, the chance before it, to see what I might see for the last time if no one came, if I was among the few for whom its venom is a lethal poison. • And then, whatever it saw or didn’t see of the world and plunging blade was stopped forever. I left it for the birds. And the birds came, the black ones, circling, mantling in the shade. The day went on just as it had beforehand except for a quiver under every leaf and grass blade, something silent, slithering, driven 5 6 Y by danger or revenge. For they must have known. But there was the garter snake curled on the sidewalk, sunning, the way a baby takes a nap on a blanket at a picnic, undisturbed by voices, singing, even an argument, or the sun’s passage over the summer garden, whatever’s come and gone. ...