The virus came to the land. No vaccine. A violence in the shadows of cell towers. Like the Maloja snake of clouds, slithering in and out of valleys from all over the world. A collision of muted traffic turning into loud music from upper windows of Florence and Rome. Markets crash, quarantines, cancellations. Days become like all those unfinished paintings of Alices. A collage of strange things. Flower petals, melting snow, insects, pigs, grubs, moles, clams, salamanders, badgers, bees, wasps and flying bats. A stain takes form. People madly wash their hands. Glow worms move. Spiders crawl, their webs embalm the air. Deceptions, heroes and traitors, collaboration, honor and resistance. War. The gulls are crying. The Great Lake Michigan is rising. Frankie climbs out the window. The house smells like a basement of disinfectant. Eggs boiling are left on the stove. Evacuations. Sirens wail in the distance. The forget me nots about to bloom.