by LYNDAL TURNER
In the orchard, the air was cooler
and a kind of verdancy teased
at the ends of our hair. Industry
buzzed and wheeled between the branches
and sweet fruit hung in globes as bright
as any strands that ever issued an invitation.
The snake caught us by surprise.
In the afternoon sun,
the bees’ soporific drone, the sheer
magic of this place, this day, this
golden light, it hadn’t heard the heavy
coming coming rumble of feet.
We stopped, frozen in our thongs,
transfixed by the deadly pattern of stripes
as it undulated to and fro, to and fro,
before disappearing into the long grass.
No clawless tiger could have marked us more.