Morning approached with a sliver of silver over the trees. They looked at it and drank, their words spoken quietly, to no one in particular, to all of them, hushed but lyrical and somehow in tune with the growing birdsong that surrounded them. They sat on damp steps and felt no cold. Between words the silence filled the gaps and the birds seemed quieter. The wine went down bitter and sweet. The occasional beer bottle popped and hissed. A few said they needed their beds, but did not move. Couples snuggled close, some for the first time. The sliver of silver grew, pushing back the sack cloth. With the light came more birdsong and the buzz of all things waking.
Some fell asleep before the sun, some afterwards, all in the new morning, their glasses and bottles half full.