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Ode to a Bull snake
Little incandescent jewels in a tidy spring nest. Five of
them, nestled, waiting, blue as the afternoon sky.
The mother robin had made the nest on a perilous beam above
the river and my father put up a mesh guard to ward off the curious cat.
On the day that they hatched, the children and I were
visiting. We could not believe the helpless display of those pink, featherless,
blind creatures- completely at the mercy of their mother’s know how at hunting
and keeping them warm. Much to our surprise, the tenacity of life kept those
little creatures alive long enough so that all eventually opened their eyes to
behold the sunny mesh of the trees overhead, the swaying green of May.
Next time we saw them, there were only two. The sad fact
being that there wasn’t actually worm enough or room enough in the nest for all
5. We avoided thoughts of the 3 being shoved out of the nest and then flushed
downstream but the flood of snowmelt that is the St. Vrain this time of year.
Instead we focused on the two that remained- newly feathered, shiny yellow
gullets open to receive the bounty of the soil, eyes blinking at us as we peered
at them from the bridge. A swell of delight and something akin to pride at
their progress from still blue orbs to demanding baby robins.
As things go, we are not the only admirers. We usually see
the bull snake a few times a season- gorgeous lattice patterns on its baseball
bat fat body- 6 feet at least and full of purpose.
The snake too, saw those babies.
By the time my father saw him he was coiled 3 feet above in
the chokecherry and draped down, head into the nest. He grabbed a push broom,
still dusty from the shop and tried to distract the snake that came up, one
baby in its mouth.
In a flurry that is at the heart of all tragedy and humanness,
there is an attempt to undo what has already been done. To change reality, to
better it. Deus ex machina on
hunger’s destiny.
My father and a friend actually rest the little bird from
the maw of the snake by holding him down behind his large diamond shaped head
and return the dazed, bloody fledging to it’s panic stricken parents who are
hanging around the nest, shouting with all their aviary might.
They then release the snake, a bit insulted- who does not
offer anything by way of apology to any of the parties involved. Who cares for
your petty stories and attachments? I know rock, I know sun, and I know a good
meal. Who is the fool here?
Now there is one injured bird left in the nest and even
still, I can’t hold back the hope that it will survive. That the mother and
father get to see that one offspring fly away to a life of ruddy plumage
announcing spring.
It’s a crazy wish and part of me longs to be more like the
bull snake
but there they are side by side- cold-blooded facts and
lofty hopes- battling it out for another day.
