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3:AM in Lockdown 4: Benjamin Myers

By Benjamin Myers.

I do what I always do: roll out of bed with the assumption that the world is nigh, and from that moment on the day can only get better.

I pour nuts into the bird feeders and wait for the crows. When they’ve squared off, elbowed each other out the way, come to blows, had their fill and made a mess, those further down the pecking order — those classier customers, with manners and style — arrive. There’s a chiffchaff out there, peregrines up on The Rock and today I hear the first woodpecker, drilling a telegraph pole with delight.

There’s a route I can walk where I won’t see a soul. I’ve been doing it for ten years. Today, I see four deer and the peacocks that my neighbour keeps. The male is displaying and as I turn a corner I nearly walk into a wall of eyes taller than I stand.

With bowsaw in hand I cut up a fallen tree; it’ll heat the house next winter when all this has passed. I drag its parts down the barren slopes just as an ox once dragged the plough, and plagues brought a pox on the people then too. It’s good to acknowledge lineage, cast an anchor down into deep time.

I think of all the positive changes that a virus could bring. An appreciation for the environment. A broader share of corporate profits. Power devolved to the regions. Deeper inspection of food sources. Better hygiene. Community. Charity. Unity.

I’m a naïve and idealistic romantic with his head in the clouds. The view from up here is pleasant enough.

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