In the brilliant gold of the autumn evening, the last traces of the dying day

Rake gently over a waterside scene

The blades of grass bow delicately in a quiet breeze

The low sound of rustling grasses fills the air, accompanied,

By the rustling of leaves enlivened for one last dance before death takes them home

The image on the still blue abyss is broken by the footsteps of the heron,

Called from the skies for the good hunting by his suprahuman intelligence

A set of leafless branches rise black against the fading blue of the clear sky

Above the ensemble a trio of crows ride the winds to a distant horizon

I know that all things are God,

The endless turning of things is merely the outward form of the endless striving

The pale sky and the deep earth and all things between them



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