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Evening at the river. As the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon, it’s warm glows barely kisses the tops of the trees. The birds begin to settle, only a few singing nursery rhymes to their little ones tucked safely in their nests.

Below the bridge, hidden in the foliage, a bullfrog trumpets twice, and then falls silent.

Overhead, a few wispy clouds continue their journey east. The river continues it’s journey too, winding first south, then west, and winding again. It will thunder over the waterfall downstream, before winding its way toward a larger body of water far past the town. Like time, the river never ceases to slip away.

But here, though I know it is moving, it appears still. The surface is like glass, capturing a perfect moment with cloud and tree. As the surface darkens with the setting sun, the smaller plants floating on the surface begin to look more like stars, and the clouds, distant galaxies. I feel very small in a great big world.

I turn and head for home. It will soon be time to sing my own evening song, before I slip away.

Sometimes the night was beautiful
Sometimes the sky was so far away
Sometimes it seemed to stoop so close
You could touch it but your heart would break

Rich Mullins/Beaker, Sometimes By Step