The snake hunts and sinewshis way along and is not his ownidea of viciousness. All he wants isa fast grab, with fur and a rapidpulse, so he can take that flutteringand make it him, do a transfusion.They say whip or rope about him, but thisdoes not give the idea; norphallus, which has no bones,kills nothing and cannot see.The snake sees red, like a hand heldabove sunburn. Zeroes in,which means, aims for the round eggwith nothing in it but blood.If lucky, misses the bladeslicing light just behind him.He's our idea of a bad time, we are his.I say he out of habit. It could be she.
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written byMargaret Atwood
© Margaret Atwood
