The end of summer nights regrettably move on making room for a season filled with cold days. They take with them the sweetness from the air and the dew from the front lawn. They become as ghost. And when an attempt is made to conjure up the atmosphere once again they slip away like the lizard on the back porch scurrying away to the past. Nothing remains except for the photographs taken while on the vacation meant for curing everything that ached all year long. No wonder the smiles on the faces look painted on and not true to the celebration. They fail to capture the youth in the eyes and the expectancy of the ocean's air. Instead when no one was looking the lens etched out the sadness even when the eyes were staring out into the distant row of houses. Where they could imagine days hid on top of a mountain instead of a valley. Where the earth meets the sky and its clay dust the floor like that of gold and with one reach a cloud could be pulled down and kneaded. Its extraction would be used to moisten and protect the skin. There would be no regrets. No need to capture a significant moment in a frame for each day would be a continuation of the one before.