Last night, after everyone had left, I walked out of the clubhouse a little after eight into one of those rare and perfect moments. The sun hung on the horizon like a great orange and the golf course stretched out into the mist in a thousand shades of green. I stopped. Birds, left to themselves now, chirped and soared through the trees, looking for a few last morsels. The humble robins. The brilliant slashes of color on the red-winged blackbirds sailing through last light. Tiny chipmunks skittered over the grass and dove into clumps of yellow daylilies. Without the murmur of the players and the collision of club-heads and balls, the course seemed vast and empty in the dusk. The light kept fading and mist curled over the grass. Photographs or paintings can’t capture this glory. This is real, so beautiful that it breaks your heart. To borrow a line, “Is this heaven? No, it’s Indiana.” I walked to my car and drove away. Rhonda Glenn