In a turn of events, their world is different.  
While I dance around the room like a windy tree, a breeze flows through a cracked open door on the edge of the Hudson River, I watch as the sun glazes the swift blown water.  You can feel the power of the sun setting as the gusts intensify.
A tugboat is pushing a barge full of sugar to be refined at the domino processing plant in Yonkers. Fighting the wind, its props churn think chunks of water skyward. Manages to avoid the rocks. 
You can smell the water this time of year as algae & aquatic vegetation start to bloom. It's an un-mistakable smell, remarkable.  A smell of home.  Where the muddy water smells like fine wine.  A smell every native of the Hudson River knows. 
Perhaps a reason the mighty Striped Bass, the American Eel, and American Shad return every year from wherever they go party in the Atlantic Ocean all summer and winter.  But the spring they always make their way back home to the Hudson River and continue north to do their mating dance and lay their eggs. 

Over the edge of the Palisades the sun is starting its salute.  Into darkness.  The unknown, "Uncharted Territory"

& as this Virus now retards our daily lives, we are told to lock our doors, stockpile food and various useless materials to wipe our asses with. Isolate. Remove ourselves from the world. Many left with nothing to do but sit there with a fear of impending doom and just watch the tallies rise on the dime a dozen, hack news outlets, fighting over a little patch of dirt and our attention.  
    Maybe we've done it this time, or maybe not.  Maybe its time to just forget about it for a while, sit this one out.  Smoke a spliff. Find a new interest.  Read a book, try hand at drawing how you're supposed to feel about it. I cant visit my friends, maybe im infected, maybe they're infected.
"Forget it", my cat Jada cuts me off with her eyes from the chair shes propped up in from across the room, eyes the size of flying saucers.  
"At least one of us is high"
I crack open a Beer, she seems to have interest in smell.
I pour some on the floor, shes lost interest.  What a waste, I only have 2 left and then ill have to go back out to virus land. 
I look back out at the setting sun, the taste of beer has always found great partnership with my mouth. Proportionately paired with a nice sunset and some fine music, nothing else really matters.  
I bet the trees think similarly.  They drink the water the clouds give them, soak the light the sun throws them, dance to the rhythm that the fungus drums and wind blows their way. What else really matters? They cant move, they grow where they're rooted until they find themselves diseased, cut down or fragmented by lightning.  For thousands of years sometimes.
However, call me a liar, but I swear Ive seen a dozen trees battling over a patch of dirt along the edge of the inter-coastal waterway in North Carolina. One pushing the other in over the bank erosion, fighting for the suns attention and what remained of the dirt.
                     But who knows, it coulda just been the weed
                     
                       .........................................................................

With a hard drive full of completed and semi completed tracks compiled over the past 4 years, here is an hour mix of my original music, from various moods, various times of inspiration.  Inspired by the earth, cats, migrating fish, beer, music, friends, weed, and dystopian anxiety. Love.

Lock Your Door, Open A Window: A Collection of Original Tracks

The sun is setting and i'm about to loose my name tag.

Lock Your Door, Open A Window: A Collection of Original Tracks

YANDL