Everything is quiet. Nothing is forlorn. The folks have gone off to Rhode Island. Families visit Father; he is crazy, certified, a jolly lunatic. On Monday and on Tuesday, municipal services are suspended. The trash bags will be toted out to their garaged plastic containers and heaped upon heaps of trash bags, one higher than the rest the day before that, until Wednesday when all are trolleyed out. Post offices will have been unlocked three days by then. Turkey will concede to Russia. And Russia will bomb Syria. Old shelved board games will be played by neighboring children around the block. Indian Summer watches children wheeling their bicycles, up and down, back and forth with foam-padded helmets on. In other parts politicians dodge this and that as is their custom—nothing especially unusually wrong in that, no more than a tall man holding a fresh pint of lager ducking near a tossed point floating freely walking too near a local game of darts at the pub. Christmas presents are hidden in growing attic piles as mid-December will soon near. Shiny cookie-cutter snowmen, wreaths, and stars will come out from their plastic zip-locked bags stored in the high closet above refrigerators in due time. Dusted menorahs following Kislev will be fitted with eight new candles and lit for the burning days of religious notice. Giant sea turtles elsewhere underwater will have been swimming for one hundred fifty years all the while.