A cigar— cherry-tipped at the creek,
iced fog creeping around an abdomen of bark,
echoing acoustic vibrations under autumnal skyline,
post-shift luxuries pacifying being amorphous to society.
When I was small, I started to notice and enjoy the presence of what most people consider pests. Flies, bees, crickets… Creatures who quietly moved into my kitchen or pantry without any consent to speak of – only to meet their demise when the siren raised by my mother ushered in the bottom of my father’s shoe.
At one of these raids, I was drawn to the dutifully trailing army of little black soldiers,