I spent the afternoon walking sedately beneath the most potent of nature’s virus destroying remedies, the golden orb that is the sun. My progress was at best steady at worst snail like, quite free of human interaction excepting for two rather athletic female runners and some distant mothers with attached kiddy-winks adjacent to the playground apparatus.
The day was chill without being unpleasant, the sun providing a degree of warmth to skin that was reassuring in our present clime. Passing motorists expressions, responding to my acknowledgements, confirmed a seeming sadness at their enforced enclosure and envy of my well-chosen and allowed freedom.
I have recently had reason to ponder upon my past wanderings in the Balkans, Grecian Archipelago and Levant, places rife with pestilence, plague and leprosy. I have concluded that the habits and considerations those circumstances imprinted upon my conscience are the only rules needed to avoid contamination. Such precepts are neither complicated nor befuddling, they are quite logical and simplistic.
Lord Byron himself traveled much the same path as I and was famously disinclined to carry out any precautions yet suffered not a one of the multifarious contagions of the region. Perhaps a poetic or literary bent is truly the solution to all earthly disease and sorrow, at least in M’lord and mine own example.
I am by choice a voyeur, a watcher of people, events and nature in all their glorious anarchy. Times of famine necessitate expanded focus, a widening of appetite as opposed to the fixation upon singular dishes, an avoidance at any cost of wasteful pickiness. My awareness pans constantly, tasting every possible platter, feeding sparingly but constantly, endlessly grazing the sparse buffet life has grudgingly conceded to presently table.
Sitting upon my favorite bench, partaking in a flask of black tea and vaping some three percent nicotine peach oil I was greeted by not one, two or three robins but a quite amazing twenty-seven of the little red breasted fellows. Question, do American female robins have red breasts too? British lady robins are rather dowdy brown feathered girls; however the chaps seem quite content with this state of affairs. Perhaps in avian fashion plain is the new chic whilst gaudy is quite passé.