It happens once a year, without fail,
a few weeks after school begins.
A girl screams from down in the corner of the oval.
You can tell how close she came
to stepping on the poor thing
by just how loud she yells.
Usually it slithers away before anyone else notices
and the girl gets to tell the story
of the two-metre monster for the rest of term.
But sometimes, like today,
it’s just too hot and the snake can’t hear anyway
so no amount of yelling and hollering
is going to bother him.
He just lies there in the sun,
head up, just slightly,
feeling whatever breeze he can,
with the whole school gathering around
at a safe distance.
These kids are smart enough not to go too close,
except maybe Mick Dowling.
As I walk through the crowd I notice he’s not here.
That’s a blessing.
It’s a red-bellied black,
who looks kind of sleepy,
so I get the children to move well back,
to give the young fellow the idea
that heading over into the saltbush might be wise.
The trick is not to do anything silly
like stamping on the ground close to them.
He’s likely to strike then.
Just wait.
I keep talking to the children
about how snakes swallow their food
and how much venom it takes to kill a person.
They all listen to me
but keep their eyes on the snake.
And pretty soon, the bell goes
or the snake slithers away
and we all go back to doing
what we’re supposed to.
I know where he’s going.
Down to the river to have a swim.
Just like some of the boys in Year Six do,
at lunchtime,
even though they’re not allowed.
I worry about the boys doing that,
but I remember that’s what I did
when I was their age.
A swim in summer.
Who can resist that?