Eighteen Inches Of Death Poem by Juan Olivarez

he lay on a hill, enjoying the sun,
Eighteen inches of death, that never would run.
On a clear crisp morning one December day,
underneath the blue skies, and the clouds of grey.

At first glance I thought him, a piece of dead skin,
But some ancient instinct, warned me from within.
I picked up a pebble and I tossed it his way,
And he came out of his stupor, and began to sway.

Then the tiny rattles started to hum,
Tapping the desert sands like a veritable drum.
All he had to do was to stare me down,
my knees turned to jelly, so far from my town.

Such a tiny creature and so deadly still,
Intensified greatly my December chill.
So I took out my cell phone, and framed a reminder,
Forever with me now, is my mojave Sidewinder.

6/19/12 Alton Texas