Morning Again? Why Does This Always Happen to Me?

[rejectomorph]

After a while, the sound of the crickets blends into the night so well that it becomes a kind of silence. The night is good at making sounds into silence. Silence is not golden. Silence is the blue-white of stars, the cobalt of sky nearing morning, the black of silhouetted trees, the midnight green of moonlit lawns. What is golden is that dawn which is about to thunder up. I will close the curtains and pretend as best I can that the silence yet prevails.