Somewhere, a white butterfly floats above greenery in garden beds. A neighbor’s dog barks at whatever triggered it. Afternoon birds continue their tweets and chirps, hidden among a canopy of maple leaves
Somewhere, boughs sway and leves rustle. A chartered jet flies overhead. Sunlight brightens on the backyard’s mix of freshly mowed grass and crabgrass.
Somewhere, almost a thousand unmarked graves are discovered on the grounds of two closed residential schools for indigenous children. Catholic religious orders ran both for the Canadian government, whose late-19th century policy of westernization for indigenous people is summed up in the adage “kill the indian to save the child.” Far too many Catholics on twitter say nothing about this while decrying “graffiti” related to these horrific discoveries on the door of a Catholic Church.
Somewhere, a summer wind sets windchimes ringing.
tear-stained ground
how ordinary
these days
Frank J. Tassone 
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