King Snake

Each spring, we found your discarded skins,
each year, more impressive. We kept one
on our porch for months, showing it off like
a trophy to our friends. I saw you once,
 
glimmering black with a yellow chain wound
‘round. Coiled tight on a contorted lizard,
stark green. I inched close for a picture and
spoiled your dinner. Releasing your prey,

you retreated into the black coolness of
the weathered railroad ties that line our drive.
Cool, dark, but vibrating. Kid-visiting-kid feet
traipsing atop your home, minivan crescendo-buzz

up and down the drive, dogs, bounding and
sniffing until called inside. Through your
months of hibernation, did you dream of
a place open and bright where you could bask

all day unafraid, in plain sight? This spring
and last there have been no trophies, and
I suspect you won't return. I fear you went
lizard hunting and encountered someone

who’d rather meet you with a shovel’s edge than
a camera. I prefer to think you've gone your way to
find some other wall on some other drive. But if not,
that you shine beyond celestial gates, long and wise.

Laura Johnson

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Laura Johnson  would like to hear them.