✨A Creek poetic legend of grief, betrayal, and the songs of serpents✨
They say she used to walk among us.
The Moon.
Not just a light in the sky,
but a woman with silver skin
and a voice like river lullabies—
low and lonesome,
full of secrets.
She moved like dusk—
soft and sure,
carrying the scent of magnolia
and mourning.
And lawd, she loved that man.
A warrior carved from cedar and fire,
with a jaw that could slice lies in two
and eyes that saw too much.
She gave him her light.
Wrapped it ‘round his shoulders
like a shawl stitched from starlight and bone.
Sang to his scars,
bathed his rage in quiet.
She believed him
even when his truth came with splinters.
But one summer night,
when the cypress were heavy with ghosts
and the frogs held their breath,
he laid his promises at another woman’s feet.
He kissed her beneath the same moon
that had once watched him swear forever.
And the Moon—
she broke.
Not with thunder.
Not with fire.
But with silence.
She turned her face away from the earth,
packed her sorrow into shadow,
and rose.
High.
Higher.
Until she became untouchable.
Cold,
yes.
But only because warmth cost too much.
And the Rattlesnake,
her old protector—
the one who once slept at her feet
curled like a question—
he watched her go.
He slithered through the cane brake,
traced her light on still water,
and wept the only way he knew how:
with song.
That’s why he rattles.
Not to scare you.
But to remember her.
Every shake of his tail is a hymn.
Every coil a memory.
And when he rises to strike,
it’s not rage—
it’s grief.
Because the Moon was his kin,
his keeper,
his queen.
And she’s never coming back down.
So if you see him on the trail—
don’t run.
Don’t scream.
Just bow your head
and whisper:
“I, too, have loved someone who forgot my light.”