My mother never liked snakes.
Once, I saw her shoot two black snakes 

right out of a tree--they were writhing
and weaving together in the branches,

hanging entwined making love--but she 
was not fooling around. Another time,

she emptied a pistol into one
that had the misfortune

of wandering through her yard--
five shots out of six on target--

and then she grabbed a garden hoe,
chopped it up and drug its remains

out to the driveway, to ensure its destruction
under her tires. 

I'm not so sure that snake 
was the one she was angry with.