i rested on the handle of my spade and smoked.
i witnessed a congregation of privet,
solemn hemmed and so cuffed with berries
that even the herring birds, oddly black against the cloud,
eschewed with cackles and coughs and with caution;
i worked a thread of wet tobacco from my tongue to my lip
and I rolled it into mush between a thumb and finger
(the bitter taste of almost breathing).
my lungs, half filled with monday morning graveyard
smoke and air. the cackle of the birds in the trees.