“It’s dead,” I told myself. Bottle flies hovered like ants sniffing out a picnic. The body lay in the gravel road about a third of the way from the house on the way to the gate. It was late yesterday afternoon and I was making a quick run before supper time. “It’s definitely dead,” I muttered. But I couldn’t make myself walk around it and instead ran all the way back to the house like a little kid calling for Daddy.
Buck and I slow-jogged together back to the big eastern diamondback rattlesnake.
That so powerful a creature would meet its demise by stretching out on a little-traveled private gravel road on a sunny morning and being run over by a car, probably the big black sedan I was driving on my way to the grocery store, seems absurd.
Six rattles and a button.
When I consider walking to the gate again this morning, I try to remember that this snake and its brethren have most likely been watching my steps for years; that they have no interest in me.