Before cats, a water snake, or fish snake (I've heard it called both), liked to sun on a long rock I use for a bridge over the branch that runs by the house, Spring Lizard Creek.

Each year the snake was bigger than it was the year before. When it reached the length of a good-sized snake, four feet, more or less, the next year a young snake found the rock for sunning. The new snake grew longer every year until it reached full maturity, then it evidently died too, and left the rock to the next young snake looking for unclaimed territory along the waterway.

One of these water snakes is a bit startling to walk up on. The pattern along its back suggests a copperhead even when I know it's not. Its color is a grayish brown that blends well with the colors of rock in the beds and on the banks of streams.

Of all the different snakes I've encountered, none of them has seemed at all aggressive to me. I don't usually get close enough to encourage aggression. When I see one, I let it know by body language, standing still, that I intend no harm. When we humans brace up from fear in front of some wild critter that is automatically afraid too, it sees a human, the worst possible thing any feral being could see, and it reads aggression in our hyper activity.

At six feet tall, I'm a towering giant to something with eyes less than an inch from the ground. The snake looking up at me is like me looking up at a skyscraper. If a jolly green giant of skyscraper size looked down at me and jumped and started flailing around shrieking, or poking at me with a stick, I'd at least be suspicious that this unpredictable behavior might be a threat and I'd do well to be ready, just in case.

This water snake is peaceable as a rabbit. It can jump in the water and shimmy out of sight to hide in a dark place under a rock. It's a creature of flight, not fight. I've seen Aster put her nose right up to the nose of one of these snakes while it was airing on a rock. They stood nose to nose for two or three seconds and the snake jumped into the water. Of course, I would too if something a hundred times bigger than me and with the face of a dog put its nose up to mine.

One summer day a few years ago I was sitting on a flat moss-covered rock that slanted into the water along one side. The part of the rock above water level was about the size of a chair cushion. I was sitting cross-legged with tablet in lap writing about seeing a three-year old discover the independent mobility of her fingers, that she could control each one, remembering the wonder in her eyes.

I looked up and saw a snake swimming from the opposite bank in a straight line toward me. Its eyes were bearing down on mine as it swam. I was both fascinated to see a snake swim and alarmed that I could see in its eyes that the snake had a bead on me.

It was not a comfortable feeling that charged through my nervous system like lightning running around inside a cloud. I was a little bit disturbed to see intent in a snake's eyes. I thought of the hypnotic effect snake eyes are said to have on birds.

My first thought, naturally, was it's a copperhead. Next thought recognized it was a water snake; so I sat still and watched it settle on the underwater part of the rock I was sitting on, it's chin on the rock just out of the water a foot or so to the right of my leg. I sat quietly and looked at its eyes that seemed to be playing trick-or-treat on me.

It crawled out of the water and lay still on the rock next to my right leg without touching. It kept looking at me with eyes that seemed to say, "I'm a serpent. You're supposed to be afraid and run. Are you dense or what?" I realized that this was the snake's sunning rock and it was trying to tell me the best it knew how that this is the time of day for snake to curl up for a nap and it wanted me to go back to human world where I came from.

I apologized to the snake for using its rock when it wanted to, but I wanted to stay awhile longer and then would leave the rock to the serpent. Too, I told the snake that I'm happy to get along with it and let it rest beside me. However, if it should crawl up onto my leg I would probably jump and snake would jump and our experiment at friendliness across several levels of consciousness would be quite unsuccessful. The snake never did get on me, but I confess to apprehension the whole time it was there, mixed with fascination.

After a little while the snake slipped back into the water, swam around to in front of me, raised its head and rested its chin on the rock right at the place where my ankles were crossed. Its tongue darted in and out. The eyes were still telling me to scram, but this time not so intensely. Then it swam off into the channel of the stream in frustration. I watched it ride the surface of the water downstream like a surfer, head up, then swim back up the stream like it was showing me how it got its name, the water snake. It performed a water ballet directly in front of me, swimming around in perfect harmony with the water flow.

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