Sundown in the Park

Over the long winter months, one waits for an evening like last evening to arrive, and there are so many times when the waiting seems interminable, when it seems as though springtime will never appear. Then comes a day when there is birdsong in the air, when the clouds are softer — the wind is quieter — the late sunlight seems warmer.

One can glimpse all of the Old Wild Mother's weaving on such a night as she stands there at the edge of that quiet pool among the trees, the slowly setting sun golden on her head and the ripples moving serenely outward.