Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day One Hundred Ten

A return to work and old routines. Walking my love to her tower in the early morning hours, the sun bright along the horizon, lending a welcoming glow to the clear sky. I return home alone to my correspondences. After so many days unattended, they have piled up and it is many hours before I have seen to them all.

In the midst of that there is breakfast and watering the garden. Phone calls to discuss matters of import and the week ahead. By lunchtime I have forgotten that I was ever away from all this. The afternoon though is sluggish, my mind slow and wandering. I find myself looking out the window at the passing clouds.

A pair of songbirds, grey coated with a touch of red to their heads, has taken up occupancy in the trees outside. Their songs always draw me away from my work and I watch them flit among the branches, calling to each other. They are so tiny I often lose sight of them as they descend into the depths of a pine tree, lost among the cones, before darting out and into the sky.

It feels like a day to sit beneath a tree, cooled by its shade, watching the birds chattering as they go about their business. But I have work of my own to see to.

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