Evening Song

Walking through the certain softness of golden hour,

The air nearly imperceptible.

Each step the click of a metronome

Attempting to count the time against the eternal lyricism of creation.

Such folly to think the song our own, or to claim we know its signature.

We are stewards of great beauty.

Privileged observers, moving through the everlasting presence,

That gift of certain softness, at every hour,

Always and forever.

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