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 Eighty Six

The sun has returned, the haze dissipating from the sky, though a film of it still remains high above, granting everything a sepia glow.

The changing of seasons is more and more evident. With each passing week the sun rises later and sets earlier. My love and I walk to work in the gloaming dawn now. A few short weeks ago the sun was already above the horizon by the time we set out. I now have to close my blinds in the mid-afternoon to keep the sun from my eyes.

As I walked home this morning through the shadows of dawn, a fat crow flew by my head, settling upon a fence ahead of me. There it stayed, ducking its head and fluffing its wings until I passed. As I walked by it went still, staring at me eye to eye from the fence. There was no fear in that gaze, no curiosity either. Just something hard and hungry, issuing a challenge or a warning. Of what I don’t know.

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