It is a late hazy morning. I step out of my air conditioned apartment. A mild winter Florida wind plays with my hair and skirt, kisses my cheek. Beyond the breezeway, a groundskeeper addresses the low growing date palm with pruning sheers and gloved hands, his large scissors eating green flesh, crunching through briskly. There is little movement, only the highway beyond and a distant city shocked by contagion. How I have longed for this man’s work without knowing what it is I wanted. The fronds fall together, discarded like written pages or crisp sheets, collapsing to the ground, spent. He walks around the cluster of long green feathers, tending each outgrowth. I thank the morning. I feel on the other side of a long burning anger. What I sense now are simple, quiet tasks.