a bad season for snakes

You find the
first
by the mailbox
thick and still like rope,
no sign of foul play,

and you ask her
what happened-

She says:
it was a good day to die
in as good a place as any
where things come and go.

You find the
second
near the downspout
thin and bent like a wire hanger,
neck snapped,
but the sun has turned his skin into a ribbon
of aurora and gold-

and you ask him
what happened here-

He says:
it was the wrong place
the wrong time
to be a snake.

You leave the grasses growing,
the stones unmoved.

You know the world breathes
in threes-

so you keep your eyes on the sky.