Snake Oil

The Hunter - not so small now - finds something in the grass. A scent that makes him unusually wary. He pads at a plantain. The high-summer, high-noon sky is brilliant white with clouds, but overlaid with a herd of deep grey-bellied rain-cows begging to be milked. The grey has turned the river to matt black oil rippled with silver. The flowers of the riverbank are reflected and inverted. Purple loosestrife hangs like lolling dogs tongues. Golden ragwort flowers, swarms of starry teasels and a late scattering of forget-me-nots are arranged like fireworks over the black water. I turn back and see the grass slither, sinuously, though I do not see the snake.