There is no privacy to 8 on a Monday morning. I am watched by cats. I am watched by houses. The cars go swooshing. The cars already parked in the lot, the dressed people crossing pavement. Mimosa blossoms stand on tiptoe. The smokers on their stoop again, bending into their phones. The grey haired man in the purple shirt bending to pickup the windfall leaves from his lawn. I hate doing this, he confesses into my breathless passing. I grunt and smile, an acknowledgment. Somewhere a dog in chains making bird noises. The sun is in the blue. The green lives between things, fringed with gleaming scrap. The dead rest in the shade. I am grateful.