My heart is in my throat. My pulse is racing. Is that sweat on my brow???
I’ve tried to curb these feelings. What are they anyway? Some instinct carried over from an ancestor so far back they’re not even a name on my genealogy chart? Well, I hope it served them well.
If the snake feels the same about me it shows no indication. It just lays there in the path in front of me, stock still and unmoving. It doesn’t turn its head.
We share a moment, this baby snake and I. It’s nearly a foot long and its coloring blends so well with its surroundings that I am nearly on it before I realize it is there. My foot is in the air. The snake remains motionless.
Even in my terror my mind races. What is life like on such a scale? What is the view from an inch above the ground? Does the snake wonder what life is like five feet in the air? Probably not. What are feet to snakes?
Eternity snaps and my foot lands just behind the snake’s tiny rattles. I take another step and another. I try to slow my steps but it is still flight that wins the day. My heart returns to my chest and my pulse returns to normal. The snake is becoming a memory.
A little while later, on my way back up the path, it is gone.
This is already strong. It works because it stays inside the body of the moment instead of turning into a “snake story.” The tension is physical, not performed.
The main things I’d adjust are:
* a bit of tightening in the opening
* removing a couple rhetorical questions that over-explain the thought
* smoothing one or two rhythm bumps
* sharpening the ending slightly so it lands cleaner
Here’s a lightly edited version that keeps your voice intact:
—
My heart is in my throat. My pulse is racing. Sweat on my brow.
I’ve tried to curb these feelings. What are they anyway? Some instinct carried over from an ancestor so far back they are not even a name on my genealogy chart? I hope it served them well.
If the snake feels the same about me, it gives no sign. It just lies there in the path ahead, stock still and unmoving.
We share a moment, this baby snake and I. It is nearly a foot long and its coloring blends so well with the ground that I am almost on it before I realize it is there. My foot is in the air. The snake does not move.
Even in my fear my mind races. What is life like at that scale? What is the view from an inch above the ground? Does the snake wonder what life is like five feet up? Probably not. What are feet to snakes?
Then it snaps. My foot lands just behind the snake’s tiny rattles. I take another step, then another. I try to slow myself but flight has already taken over. My heart returns to my chest. My pulse settles.
The snake becomes a memory.
A little later, on my way back up the path, it is gone. I keep walking.
Barn Owl Exploration 