In the Pines, In the Pines

Because the snakes ate the minnows,

Uncle Earl took a .22 into the swamp

behind his bait shop and shot them,

both king snakes and moccasins,

on the dark secret islands

of his pine straw archipelago.

I went with him, once,

when I was twelve and new to guns.

We waded through shadows

and air thick as blood,

saying not one goddamned word

until we found a big one

stretched on an island in a bolt of light.

It reared, angry, looping, as we neared,

while a fish, white as a bearded moon,

still alive, shook in its jaws.  

Earl handed me the rifle.

This only happens once, he said.

I thought my shot went wild

but as the gun made a flat crack

the snake coiled, lunged, collapsed.

We waded back into the light,

silent as fish all the way home,

and never spoke about it.

Earl’s dead now, of course,

but on some sleepless nights

I still hear the susurrus of water

under my uneasy bed.