We chose our home in the boulders
knowing there would be snakes.
On moving day, the first appeared
in the garage, a rosy boa, under
a makeshift ramp of two boards—
clumped like a hunk of rope, sluggish.
The movers kept their distance
while I picked up the shovel.
But not to kill. The balled-up snake
rolled easily onto the blade.
It stayed still when I left it
on the slope out back, where
the sun could ease it into motion,
where the desert could witness
my intent: to let the old gods live
and learn to live among them.