the oak-leaf hydrangea knows nothing of the slaughter in Orlando
only that the time for blooming chill-white flowers has come

and the catbird hopping behind me, as I mow the lawn, is not weeping
but looking for food in the upturned grass

the sound of the neighbor’s air conditioner
thrums a low pitch
beneath the varied chatter of the yard’s true residents
nesting above me, as I sit, finished

the silver wind claps maple leaves
lightly tapping the sweet, low chimes near our sleeping dogs
who wake, to come find me, look up

and lick away my tears