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 Seventy Five

After a cloudy, rainy and chilly day the sky cleared as night fell, the temperature dropping with it. I covered my tomatoes and other frost sensitive plants with a tarp to keep the cold away. This morning, walking with my love to her tower, I could almost see my breath clouding before me.

As we made our way down the quiet, subdued streets we saw a man approaching in the distance, walking with swinging hips. He began to somersault on the dewy grass as we came near, his expression exultant with a tinge of madness. His dark hair, which went down past his ears, flew up with each tumble, before settling back on his head as he rose up. We turned a corner and went on, while he climbed atop an electrical box, crouching down on his hands and knees looking up as though he were searching for a moon to howl at.

I returned home and removed the covers from the plants, all of which had survived the frost untouched. As I returned inside I saw a crow out the window flying parallel with where I stood, floating upon the air. I watched as it coasted along, momentarily entranced by the grace of its stillness in movement.

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