Pure Waiting

I've written before about waiting - about how the new world is a long way off.  For instance, here and here.  

Columbus did a lot of waiting, too, as did the third mate on the Pinta.  Not, as I've noted, anywhere near as long as our wait has been.  And Columbus' wait was actually a little shorter.  When you get close to land - any land - there are telltale signs.  Cloud patterns, rain without wind, sticks floating in the water, and, most usefully, birds.  So "Tierra!  Tierra!" wasn't a complete surprise; the pure waiting had ended a few days earlier.

We're still in the midst of the pure waiting.  No sticks, no birds.  Logic suggests that the virus will burn through the most vulnerable and most available, and then die down.  But that's just logic, based on theories, hopes, and not nearly enough hard evidence.  The same could be said about Columbus, before the sticks, before the clouds and rain.  

We're still in the middle of the Atlantic.  We're not talking as much about "after the pandemic," and what's being written about the new world seems desultory, like they were phoning it in.  

Eventually, we're going to start seeing signs of scurvy.