Getting Cold   So — singing has been forbidden. It was the thing we loved best in the beforetimes, but now we’re all in this alone. Who doesn’t want to dance again? Is it a crime to make a little whoopee, make some noise, make music in the key of solitude? We never knew how much we’d miss our voices, the act of shaking hands, sharing food, touching one another. The months unfold without rhythm, without sequence, a fever dream of silence flowing like a herd of deer over a fence. It’s getting cold. We didn’t want this. We couldn’t believe it at first, when it still was just a word.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont October 2020