There it was, two and a half feet of beautiful, mottled black snake, stretched out in loose coils in a triangle of sun on the carport floor. My feet screeched to a halt; the snake didn’t move. Its head was poised a couple inches above the concrete, gazing without expression in my direction.

I stood awed.

Then, I wanted a picture. That would break our communion, but even so I backed into the house, hoping the snake would keep its frozen, defensive posture long enough for me to get the camera.

When I returned, the snake was making haste away, its body whipping like rope, the friction of its weight scraping crazy rhythm against the floor.

As I approached, its motion grew panicked. The snake changed direction toward the cover of my dad’s van. I cautiously peaked below, and saw it toward the rear. I moved that way and looked again. I saw the shadow of the tires, but no snake. I tried another location, and another. Nothing.

It was a lot of snake. How had it disappeared?

I felt icky, greedy. I had the chance to enjoy the company of a wild magnificence had I not wanted to own it with my camera.

The snake wanted no attention. It wanted no photos. It didn’t want to hurt or scare me; it was scared itself. It just wanted a few untroubled moments of sun.