This fire kills snakes
We had a bonfire for a friends birthday. The fire had been burning for nearly an hour when the first snake emerged. It slithered out, got a sight of us, and fled deeper into the embers. I grabbed it, but not before it’s face was badly burned. I put it in a bush and I’ll check on it in the morning. I hope it’s alright.
update: I went back out at 11pm to check on it and put it in a clean box to heal in safety, as per the recommendation of a knowledgeable friend, but it was gone. I think that’s a good sign.
As the fire burned I heard the hiss of wet wood and thought it the hiss of snakes, the slither of their bodies across the ash. I kept telling myself I was being silly until another smaller snake fled the flames. I tried to get them out of the fire pit with a shovel, but in my haste I mortally wounded it with the blade of my shovel.
I felt fucking awful, I feel fucking awful.
I made it a coffin, put a piece of white quartz in with it. I had planned to bury it, but snakes can twist and move for hours after they die, and they did. I won’t bury something that’s still moving.
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This feels related to the question of chickens. It’s different, obviously, but it feels adjacent: the weight of ending this life is enormous, far heavier than a rock. Is it the wild innocence of the snake? A chicken’s there as live stock, a snake’s a snake, doin’ snake things. Maybe it’s the accidental quality, or the irony, the fact that I was trying to save the animal that makes the death so much worse.
I had the same response to this death that I always do; I tried to honor it. I made that little coffin, I filled it with a really good piece of quartz, and I cried. I haven’t really cried like that in some time, since we killed the roosters.
One thought that the Blindboy brings up on his podcast again and again is that folklore serves a function by defending biodiversity, essentially. Making a cherry box and filling with quartz feels like my own personal folklore, my own little legend to give this snake meaning and elevation. I should lean in to that, I think.
update: I went back out at 11pm to check on it and put it in a clean box to heal in safety, as per the recommendation of a knowledgeable friend, but it was gone. I think that’s a good sign.
As the fire burned I heard the hiss of wet wood and thought it the hiss of snakes, the slither of their bodies across the ash. I kept telling myself I was being silly until another smaller snake fled the flames. I tried to get them out of the fire pit with a shovel, but in my haste I mortally wounded it with the blade of my shovel.
I felt fucking awful, I feel fucking awful.
I made it a coffin, put a piece of white quartz in with it. I had planned to bury it, but snakes can twist and move for hours after they die, and they did. I won’t bury something that’s still moving.
I had the same response to this death that I always do; I tried to honor it. I made that little coffin, I filled it with a really good piece of quartz, and I cried. I haven’t really cried like that in some time, since we killed the roosters.
One thought that the Blindboy brings up on his podcast again and again is that folklore serves a function by defending biodiversity, essentially. Making a cherry box and filling with quartz feels like my own personal folklore, my own little legend to give this snake meaning and elevation. I should lean in to that, I think.