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 Five Hundred Sixty Two

Truly a  glorious autumn in these parts, the most perfect I can recall. An autumn by which all others should be measured. The weather has been pleasant, with little rain or wind, and as a result we have been given the pleasure of watching the leaves turn from green to golden. So often here the transition from summer to fall is abrupt, signalled by a storm, sometimes even by snow, which transforms the leaves in a matter of days from green to yellow to the ground. This year the leaves are lingering even after they have turned, giving all the trees golden crowns.

This past weekend my love and I took advantage of the marvellous weather and took to the high bluffs above the northern river of the city. From that vantage point we could see the long curve of the river through the city as it makes its way east. Flanking it on either side were a profusion of golden trees, even a few red. The day was perfect, warm with hardly a breeze stirring. From the bluffs we made our way down to the river, stopping for a dinner and beer on the way. There we sat and watched people wandering by, everyone out for the night enjoying the weather and the autumn leaves. Hearing the laughter and the chatter of passersby, while watching the river flow was as perfect a night as I can imagine.

The next day we ventured out again, this time to the smaller, southern river that passes nearby our home. There is a park and pathways adjacent to it and we walked among the trees there. My love delights in the crackle and crunch of the leaves beneath her feet. We stood there for a time, letting the leaves fall upon us as the breeze stirred, as wonderful a shower as a spring rain. We returned home, the words of the old poem echoing through my mind: nothing gold can stay.

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