The garter snake relaxing in the sun-dappled tangle of tall, dry grass startles me, not because I'm afraid, but because it’s November. She watches me, wary but otherwise indifferent. She's sluggish in the cool air. I wonder how she's escaped the neighborhood cats, the lawn mowers, the rakes. How she came to find my 4x2’ island of un-mowed back yard, where the previous year I marked off a failed pumpkin patch with a cinderblock.
I feel a creeping sense of humility that this creature found solace here, of all places. Here, in the middle of a bustling town; here, where the previous tenants sprayed Round-Up year round; here where I've not encountered a single wild snake in the nearly four years of living in this rental house.
Unable to help myself, I gingerly touch her delicate keeled scales, which taper at the end of her tail. Full of grace and without panic, she quietly slides back into her golf ball-sized den. I leave her in peace.
I begin to rake the earthy-sweet scented blanket of oak leaves away from the foundation of the house. The bare soil underneath is utterly alive, un undulating wave of black beetles, wooly spiders, and warm, damp detritus. The mass scurries away under the edge of the newly formed berm, like a shy god of shadow and rot. I'm reminded of C.S. Lewis’ words, “holy places are dark places.” I leave the rest of the yard untouched.