Going back
I fly past the scenery of my childhood. There are fields of grass two meters high, places very like where we used to play hide and seek. Then, there were trails through it left by wildlife, children, or four-wheelers. Now all traces are gone. Here are woods and a creek. Suddenly I have my bearings, and the hazy minds-eye memory of the old neighborhood snaps into place with the bright birds-eye view from my chopper. There's the man-made lake by where the post office was. Somewhere down there is my sister's bracelet that she dropped when I sneaked up behind her. We never found it. Somewhere down there is the grave where we buried my first dog. All this, and a virus that will kill us all if we let it. One good breath of fresh air would be enough to do the job.
It's the same for every generation. You can't go back. If it isn't a killer virus, it's some damn thing. I give myself a little altitude and start moving again, and my thoughts are just a jumble in my head.