The Black Snake Mary Oliver (1935- ) When the black snake flashed onto the morning road, and the truck could not swerve-- _death_, that is how it happens. Now he lies looped and useless as an old bicycle tire. I stop the car and carry him into the bushes. He is as cool and gleaming as a braided whip, he is as beautiful and quiet as a dead brother. I leave him under the leaves and drive on, thinking about _death_: its suddenness, its terrible weight, its certain coming. Yet under reason burns a brighter fire, which the bones have always prefered. It is the story of endless good fortune. It says to oblivion: not me! It is the light at the center of every cell. It is what sent the snake coiling and flowing forward happily all spring through the green leaves before he came to the road. --

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