Black horses and a bicycle

I used to have a picture here of three cops on horses but Blogger, or maybe Google, or the MPD removed it. Disturbing!

Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
The fourth, hopefully, is indefinitely delayed. 

As if to increase our isolation, our internet punked out last week, and I am writing in the lounge area downstairs, wearing a mask, looking up with hostility at any who dare enter. 

I kind of wondered yesterday, when this entourage passed, why the officers would bring out their horses, usually reserved for parades. Maybe it's a kind of "show the flag" duty? But black horses do match the End Times mood, and, with everybody at home, at least they're unlikely to be hit by a car. 

I've been biking pretty regularly, and have discovered new routes. Many days in a row I've gone to Grant Park, through a couple miles of city streets, then into industrial backlots, past Groppi's on the south side, through the South Shore Marina and the trails beyond it, with water slapping at the rocks. Then up a couple of sharp hills and into the park itself, which winds and curls through trees and fields and goes and goes and goes and finally ends at the golf course, with its lovely ramshackle clubhouse. Yesterday -- was it yesterday? -- the sun shone and families with kids and dogs were out, walking carefully, not bothering to keep a distance -- they probably live together anyway -- and looking around as if it was all new to them. 

I don't mind it too much, this pause. (I won't mind it till I get sick.) It's pretty much the pace I live at anyway. 

Today is our 35th anniversary. Who woulda thunk it? It still works. For dinner, probably, we'll break out our best cereal, with an option of brown sugar.   

Day-glo, mirror, headlamp and, I don't think that's a tongue, really, but it sure does look like one.