The evening lays its cheek against the hill, while golden light gathers in the trees; the world inhales by slowly breathing still, and teaches restless hearts the art of ease. The maples confetti copper in the air, like small, bright secrets drifting from the bough; a cooler hand unfastened summer’s glare and soothed the fevered forehead of the now. The geese write widening questions o'er the gray, the fields grow rich with silence, straw, and seed; each fading thing becomes a shining way God has provided for our every need. Let our years grow dim without regret: the saints who fell to earth are with us yet.