Beech Lake

Spring, and spring of her life also. She walks to water to stand behind sedges, thinking of snakes. And snakes come. First one, lazily, tail sculling, head high, counterclockwise along shore, and then another. And then -- another. All going, she notes, the same way round. Next day, incorrigible child, she rigs a black fly rod with stout green line tied, butt end and tip end: a snare. Back to the sun-long lake. The snakes continue their rounds. She casts loop, she waits.

One comes, riding high in clear water, black eye bright. Caught, the looping, livid thing bends the rod double almost. On close inspection she speaks its given name: common water snake. Proudly she touches the twisting ribbon of flesh, but it turns to sink four quiet rows of teeth deep in the base of her thumb. Shamefaced, she lets the bright creature go; it swims sedately, maddeningly counter-clockwise: nothing has happened to change its agenda. Rod forgotten, she sinks to her knees among sedges to watch fishing men quietly fishing in beech-shade, shading her eyes with her still throbbing hand.