Mr. Jones stretched out upon his gray lawn chair, his eyes absorbing a spectacular sight: a sparkling blue pool whose twinkles reflected the beaming yellow sun, whose azure was surrounded by intricately designed stones. Perfectly pruned palm trees sprouted from the stone in strategically placed places. Manicured bushes with colors carefully chosen edged his front yard, and a beautifully carved fountain graced the entrance to his property.
Yet when he slept, he dreamt. And when he dreamt, he envisioned the raging waves of the free river coursing through the mountainside. He pictured a blue sky with clouds partially obscuring the sun. His mind played him the sight of the thickest foliage spreading across the largest fields on the expanse of the open fields. The colors seemed to grow in wild mixes perfect to the eye, and the ever changing horizon stood at the gateway to man’s vision.
Yet he thought, he saw, he knew: man can build and build, till he reaches the ultimate physical beauty of building, till he caps all potential and takes the breath away from all who view his work. But he knew, he knew:
All that will never be as beautiful as a single, bright, lone, shining blade of natural grass.
Nomi Shira 
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