Snakeskin

Pruning back the old spirea bushes that sprawled for years in summer's heat, I bared the snake skin, a yard and a half long: its naked empty length rippled in the streaming wind lifting its ghostly coils from the dead shoots that scraped the slough from the slithering body that shed it in that narrow, shaded space. I paused—who wouldn't?—shears poised, slipped off gray canvas gloves, extracted the sere, striated casing from the brown stalks that had held it, silent, hidden. I coiled the paper-thin curling sheath with care, delicately, eased it into a simple squatty box for keeping, for care, for my daughters to take to school, to show, to explain how some sinuous body we've never glimpsed, that haunts about our shrubs, our porch, left for us this translucent, scale-scored wrapper, this silent hint of all that moves unseen.