Out hunting, Bert Kessler brings down a quail and then reaches into the undergrowth to retrieve it. What he expects to be a simple pickup turns sinister: a hidden rattlesnake bites his hand, and he freezes as the snake uncoils and slips away. The poem follows his perspective closely, from the bright, almost beautiful fall of the shot bird to the queasy discovery of the snake’s ashen, bleached body. He notices the rattler’s yellow eyes, arched head, and ash-colored coils with a strange, horrified clarity. There’s no heroic struggle or dramatic death scene, just a man going suddenly limp in the grass, overtaken by shock and venom. The mood is taut and unsettling — a routine moment in the field flips into silent danger. Bert’s voice feels matter-of-fact, even dazed, which makes the ending more chilling. It reads like a memory told from just before the dark closes in.
Bert Kessler — Summary
I winged my bird, Though he flew toward the setting sun; But just as the shot rang out, he soared Up and up through the splinters of golden light, Till he turned right over, feathers ruffled, With some of the down of him floating near, And fell like a plummet into the grass. I tramped about, parting the tangles, Till I saw a splash of blood on a stump, And the quail lying close to the rotten roots. I reached my hand, but saw no brier, But something pricked and stung and numbed it. And then, in a second, I spied the rattler— The shutters wide in his yellow eyes, The head of him arched, sunk back in the rings of him, A circle of filth, the color of ashes, Or oak leaves bleached under layers of leaves. I stood like a stone as he shrank and uncoiled And started to crawl beneath the stump, When I fell limp in the grass.