Shrink

They are ever so tentative at first. They wonder if it's really safe to come out. They walk whisper quiet in the streets, huddled, nervous. Nature and her children creep around them. Skiddish animals retreat from roaming about city streets.

There are the loud ones, the non-believers. They litter the cities with noise. Shout, whoop, revel in their victories.

"I told you so" resonates from the rooftops as they dance a fool's dance. They embolden hesitant hearts. The scared ones come out. Masks are donned, lost, and shoved into closets of cleaning supplies.

The animals shrink back. Life leaps from canals and springs out of streams and all flock to the confinement -no- the safety of the forests, the rivers within them. City blocks aren't safe anymore. It is an impossible task, to reclaim what once was yours in the face of something so powerful. Nature calls them back to her, holds them tight. It's okay, loves. We tried.

The news outlets warn against reckless behavior. Paris sees more moonlight kisses then ever before. More parties, more concerts, more movies. Packs of people huddled too close for comfort, breeding grounds for disease. They are long past caring.

Doctors warn us. "Do not forget the danger of illness." Too late. We have already forgotten.

Admissions offices will collectively sob if they get one more essay about how the coronavirus changed a high school life. Life carries on. Nobody changes. We continue to live, destroy, and die.

Mother Nature sobs. What can she do to teach them to stop destroying her? Her body? Their temple?

She sighs. Nothing. I'm sorry, darlings. I may not be able to protect you for much longer.