The birds just keep on singing.

I step outside to take my walk. I cross to the sunny side of the street. I pull up my bandanna, tight on the top of my face — those hospital workers with their faces indented and reddened by endless mask-wearing — we will make our own masks tomorrow. I smile with my eyes, veering away from the few others I encounter on the sidewalk.

Lots of sirens. Lots of helicopters hovering in the sky. Lots of birdsong. It’s a beautiful day.

Then, on my walk back home, a man running with a red towel, getting into a parked car. Then, the ambulance parked crookedly on the street, a woman seated in a wheelchair, waiting to be placed inside the ambulance. Then, I see the bloodstain on the back of her sweatshirt.

After this, my hair will be longer. I will worry a little bit more. I will be nervous about contact, connection, distance. After this, I wonder if anything will really have an end. After this, I will hold you all. After this, will we all have to move somewhere else?