If a Snake Could Speak

If a lion could speak, you could not understand him; if I spoke, you'd understand even less. Still, I will try—not to moralize, not to soften, but to map how a life like mine measures the world. I trace heat like a painter traces shadow, taste the air with a tongue that reads history, listen to the earth like a radio for footsteps, and make stillness into a practiced economy. This book is seven small dissections of those faculties—pit-sight, wind-taste, ground-voice, patience as muscle, the choreography of the strike, shelter and camouflage, the ledger of scars—offered in plain, spare language so you can feel what I feel without pretending to translate it.

I do not ask for your sympathy. I offer an education: a way to see animals on their own terms and, by seeing, to be less quick to name them monstrous or mysterious. For readers of animal consciousness, philosophy of mind, and raw nature writing—this is a close, unsentimental look at what perception does when survival is everything. I wait. You watch.