Basilisk

The grass died in a ring before the basilisk showed. A crowned serpent, king of the old poison, a look that made the air taste of metal. Birds left the branch and did not return. People who crossed that ring carried a basilisk gift in the eyes, the sting of having almost met it. It comes back in basilisk playing cards that no one holds up to the light, in a basilisk notebook whose first word is written and then scored out, in a basilisk postcard of the crown and the still grass. The field goes quiet. The crown does not lower.