I am reminded of a lawn bed. A perfect lawn. A dense rich stretch of bluegrass without a speck of yellow cut to an even length, just enough to grow between your toes and stop at the bottom of your ancle. Under, A man made carpet of nature tendrels of grip microsopic in a fine web like a child’s scribbling with a ink pen. It takes work. Riding on giant cutting machines and pruning the chaft and looming over patches of weed with dry cracked hands. But in time, you lie in bed of tamed green with eyes shut and warm in mid-day sun.