I had written the first draft of this months ago, before the long quarantine had begun.
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It's a work day, by which I mean it is a job day for the majority -- whether that majority is Silent, living lives of quiet desperation, or even happy, I cannot say. Only that they are at a job and I am not. I am at a library, on the third floor.
My frugal phone has a radio function enabled, something nearly all phones had available for years, but only recently turned on; folly and greed can outrun technological progress. I listen to a classical station and a piece I've never heard before uplifts me. The outer walls of the library are just glass -- window after window, what I thought was absurd modernism now shown to be very useful. I can see the flights of birds, most of it below my level. I see groupings swell up in light and come back down in waves, close enough to the movements of the music to be exhilarated further.
A perfect hour, the bloom of the moment [1], but I had errands to run, and so I was to leave very soon after that, but not before the next song was over.
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[1] My second reference to Walden in this quite short piece.
