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black snake had entwined itself in the banisters of the stairs, no more than three feet from me. He was sunning himself and, no doubt, digesting his meal of wrens.
What is it that triggers the sharp, irrational stab of fear — that prickling of the hair on the back of the neck — when we see a snake? It only lasts until reason returns, yet it was there for me. Is it learned or are we born with it?
I reached out with my foot and tapped the snake on the tail. He turned and looked, flicked out his tongue and leisurely crawled down through the steps and disappeared into the four-foot stone wall that separates the back from the side yard.
Their duty of announcing the snake over, the jays flew away and went about their business.
On May 31, Lee and I returned from picking strawberries at Muskrat Haven Farm. I checked the house wren nest in the bluebird box at the garage, it was empty of eggs and young. The tiny, feather-lined nest was intact. Only a snake can empty a nest and make it appear the contents have been gently lifted out with a spoon. Other predators, like a raccoon or a cat, destroy the nest in pulling out its contents.
One of the seven eggs had hatched when I opened the
See SONG, Page A6
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