Just a Song at Twilight

Like many writers, I suppose I have an idealized picture of the past, of my youth, when everything was green and golden and all the calves sang to my huntsmans horn. All the potential was ours, all that mattered was the immediate present, and the future belonged to some non-threatening, never-to-be-achieved time when we might--God forfend--actually get older. So here it is--my paean to my youth...