3

The speaker of the poem runs through the woods to

A. get far away from the snake because she is afraid of it.

B. catch the snake so she can bring it home to keep for a pet.

C. show her father she can move as fast as a blue racer.

D. get home a little more quickly because she is very tired.

Walking stick in hand,

my father rustles the brush,

stirs up life

beneath the dead leaves

then pauses

to poke at the underbelly

of a snake,

its skin stretched tight,

body limp.

"Blue Racer," he says.

He grabs the tail as it pulses and twists to life.

It slips from my father's hand

like water

and streaks off through the woods,

under leaves

over stumps

a blue whip of a tail

glinting in the sunlight

Suddenly,

it turns over and lies again,

motionless.

My father pulls my hand and leads me

past the white scar of a snake carved into rotting growth.

"If you can't go as

fast as a Blue Racer," he says, "the

next best thing is playing dead."

The thick blue veins in my father's hands

pulse and twist. My hand

slips from his, and I run

faster, faster, faster

his voice calling to me,

echoing in the trees.