And Fall, with her yeller harvest moon and the hills growin'

Roy Bean, the rough-hewn lawman of the American frontier, once gave the world this rustic yet poetic image: “And Fall, with her yeller harvest moon and the hills growin’ brown and golden under a sinkin’ sun.” Though known to history as the self-styled “Law West of the Pecos,” in these words he speaks not of trials or gunfights, but of the eternal turning of the seasons. It is a vision both tender and majestic, reminding us that even the hardest of men could pause to marvel at the beauty of the earth. His words are less a description of scenery than a hymn to the cycle of time, to the way nature whispers her truths to those who will look.

The origin of this saying lies in the folk-spoken poetry of the American West, where men lived close to the soil and the sky. Roy Bean, though infamous for his eccentric justice, was a man shaped by vast horizons, endless prairies, and the rhythm of the seasons. Fall, in his words, is not just a time of year, but a personified spirit, a woman draped in gold, carrying the harvest moon in her arms. The sinkin’ sun becomes not just a sight, but a symbol — of endings, of the year’s labors fulfilled, of beauty that ripens even as it fades.

Throughout history, poets and sages have seen in autumn a teacher of mortality and fulfillment. The Roman poet Virgil wrote of harvests as the crowning glory of labor, a time when toil meets reward. The Japanese haiku masters saw the falling leaf as a symbol of impermanence, a reminder of life’s fleeting beauty. Roy Bean, in his plain frontier tongue, gives the same lesson: the hills that turn brown and golden speak of time’s passage, but also of its richness. In the fading light, there is still splendor.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln in his youth, who labored on farms through many a harvest season. He knew the golden light of autumn as a sign that the fruits of summer’s toil had come. The turning fields taught him patience, perseverance, and the wisdom that all things ripen in their own time. From such humble lessons came the strength to guide a fractured nation. The season of Fall, which Roy Bean describes, is more than beauty — it is a parable of life itself: that endings can be noble, and decline can carry glory.

The teaching here is this: Fall speaks to us of balance. Just as the harvest moon rises while the days shorten, so too must we learn to find joy even in moments of loss. The sinkin’ sun is not defeat but fulfillment, the natural descent after the high noon of summer. To embrace autumn is to embrace the truth that life is not eternal ascent; it is the sacred rhythm of rising, ripening, and passing on. To see beauty in the hills turning brown and golden is to see beauty in the cycle of life itself.

What then shall we practice? Let us learn to celebrate the harvest of our own labors. Do not cling endlessly to summer’s youth, but rejoice when your fields have yielded fruit. Learn to walk with gratitude into the golden light of your later seasons, carrying dignity instead of despair. And let us also pause to see the harvest moon, to stand in awe at nature’s beauty, for she reminds us that even in decline there is splendor, even in endings there is poetry.

Therefore, O children of the earth, remember Roy Bean’s vision. The world is not only toil and struggle; it is also mystery and glory, written in the hills and the sky. As the sun sinks, lift your eyes to the heavens and see the yeller moon, ancient and eternal, reminding you that life is a circle, not a line. In autumn’s voice, the earth tells us: “Do not fear endings, for they are but another form of beauty.” And to hear this truth, as Bean once did on the frontier, is to live not only with strength, but also with wisdom.