The covered table umbrella stood like a centerpiece obelisk as the trash was taken out and souls went to work the birds - the people. Song's in the air below a curiously low-flying helicopter - close - above the shadows that apportioned the greenery, sectioning the conifers. Barn swallows punctuated the streams of collective birdsong, sewing the morning to the pool, empty as a Catskills stage in the afternoon - looking like a ripening ruin. Houses basked like safari statues. " Every channel you turn to they play the same songs in the same order..." my mother said... by then... Sinatra long dead.