Under the spread hazel's winter umbrella hung with pale catkins pulling at a black bin liner rubble spilled, a little toad tumbles free from under in turmoil of warty limbs.
A toad in this garden where is no pond found a moist pocket of plastic pleats and a larder of wood lice in the rotted pile sits on my palm calm as a buddha thoughtless, yellow-eyed, unidentified.
Later, returning for forgotten secateurs he drifts down in the water *** I let in to the ground, trailing a bubble stream, an olive green indifferent nature god. The lordly stars sustain his crawlspace.