Sunset comes home on the backs of the crows;
beyond the ridges a child comes riding a calf.
A reed flute plays, again and again, at your ear —
short tune, long tune — where does such joy come from?
The verse is everything coming home at dusk — sunset riding in on the crows’ backs, a child padding along on a calf, a flute answering the evening. None of it hurries, and all of it arrives. Your rewards run on this slower clock: late here means larger, not lesser — like the forty-six-year-old lord whom one mountain recluse finally pointed toward everything. The danger is leaving the station one hour before the train: keep the routine through the gray stretch.
“Short tune, long tune — where does such joy come from?” — from slowness, is this verse’s answer: what builds slowly is building strongly, and the quiet thing already at work does not want hurrying. The flute repeats because repetition is how a tune becomes music — keep showing up in the small ordinary ways.
“Sunset comes home on the backs of the crows” — the returns sit in the back half of the position, riding in at dusk when the day traders have gone quiet. The only true loss under this sign is cashing out of impatience at four in the afternoon — this gain is evening freight; wait for the crows.
“Beyond the ridges a child comes riding a calf” — the later-and-bigger chapter: while peers plateau, your compounding curve keeps climbing, unhurried as the calf over the ridge. The evening train is real, and the station is worth the wait — recommit for four more weeks, not forever.
Recommit to one habit you have been tempted to drop — for four more weeks, not forever.
