The days of summer smelt their sky-borne gold and pour it, liquid, to the ground until the day I wake to find the morning light and young without the weight of sound. Where the air has hummed with heat and laughed with life, now it rests, reposing after hosting the glorious celebration of joy and jest. First among the guests, sitting in velvety green chairs and making pleasant small talk, sipping just a drop and pecking at an hors d’oeuvre, are the first to leave. Indeed the birds have stopped this morning, and it is peaceful. The air harbors no regret for their invitations, but heaves a sigh. It anticipates its rest, contemplates taking down the decorations, the velvety green chairs.