In the Washington metro area, the sun is shining on a Monday afternoon. The sky has settled on a shade that’s somewhere between cerulean and periwinkle. And the birds are active and chirping, the same way they would be on any delightful spring day prior to the coronavirus pandemic. It’s almost as if they are spurring us onward, echoing the spirit of Matthew Wilder’s 1984 hit, “Break My Stride.”  

“Ain’t nothing going to break my stride/

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