They don't know it's the last one. How
could they?
Tomorrow they'll close their windows,
trapping the click and clank of forks on their plates inside again. The low
murmur of their conversations and unexpected bursts of laughter
will be private once more. The breezes won't flip through the
magazines on the counter or chase the napkins across the table. Happy
dog barks and little babies' cries will grow quiet, taking some joy
with them into the silence.
Soon, they'll draw the blinds at sunset
— streetlight-torn darkness is no fun to look at and strangers can
peek inside too easily.
The smell of barbecues (and fresh pops
of new beers) will disappear, replaced by nostalgic smoke that falls
from the chimneys to the streets.
Temperatures will drop, the jackets
will come out, and we'll all wait for the snow. And for summer's
inevitable return.
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