The Rattlesnake Collector.
He tells me that just once,
a woman viewing one of his
rattlers in its tank
turned her back to go
and BAM,
the snake hit the glass.
I don't know,
he said, I think
she maybe was
a witch. And certain kids,
they just walk in,
and all the snakes
start buzzing—I don't
understand it.
We look in on the largest
specimens, huge
eastern timber rattlers. Massive
coils entangled, sleeping.
I have to agree
the big male is larger
this year. I learn that he is
"sweet as a kitten"
easy to handle,
never rattles when
he must be moved.
A gentleman.
Outside, it's chilly,
spring is fickle,
and though the ridges glow
with amber light
the stone is cold.
I drive home thinking
of the many secret
lives of snakes,
in red rock caves,
who must be waiting,
like I am,
for that day when
the rock feels perfect,
warm against
the belly skin.
