Pinched in the silence of the swamp With the gala-colored moccasin Meditating at his feet, He watched, tension dragging at his face, Each movement of the reptile-rippling skin, While the black, never uncertain eyes Measured the distance between, Like a tentacle unseen. The balance of life and death Shook in the hissing of its breath. A distant minute before, The command of the brooding swamp, Of the alligator, the crane and the snake, Ran gloriously in the pulse of his brain. These poor, insignificant things Kneeled at the point of his rifle As the slaves of a galley to their king. But now, his gun in a hillock of mud, And his feet in the suck of a quagmire, The virtue of mercy No longer was his. The snake, in the comfort of its coil, Took into consideration The matter of civilization, And mindful of all, Abandoned its civilized prey And scornfully wiggled away. |