Dear Yuri,
As I look out of my window, I can see the sun setting over west London.
I can see a clear, less polluted sky than in living memory and on the horizon, a rich ombré runs blue, into yellow, into pink and finally, orange.
High in the sky, through binoculars, I see chevrons of labouring, migratory birds heading north, invisible to the naked eye. A solitary plane ascends towards the east. The ratio of birds to planes amuses me. I like this new, aviation-less sky. But ‘this’ is not normal. This too shall pass. The light fades further and a few sickle-winged swifts frolic in the air, above the trees in the park – the last light making them the final gift from this hot, heady day as night descends and a gentle breeze arrives.
Dots of red lights illuminate construction cranes along the skyline as they lie dormant, roosting – ready to build again when the time comes, reminding me that when this passes so many humans will still want to live in this place and that things will, go back to normal.
Or will they?
What will become of what used to be? The ‘quiet’ of locked down London is palpable. There is an anxious, auditory space that lingers, filled with a not knowing, a grave and anticipatory sigh. A sigh from the earth that contains the weight of the natural world, a vacuum of human inactivity to highlight its futile and self-destructive nature – to strive for a better car; a bigger house; a more luxurious holiday. It is both disconcerting and wonderful, this silence – I don’t quite know how to describe my joy for the birds. Their song, can be heard clearly – clarion call for what could be, will be, one day…