Green and cool, but stippled by the hot sun; boulders, moss and delicate foliage form a Zen garden with no human assistance, as the birch bark breaks the green with shafts of silver.

A window opens into the blueness high above, where eagles (or, more probably, the much less glamorous sounding turkey vultures) ride the thermals with such grace. Below, the casually thrown patchwork of the Pretty River valley; a colony of dark motorcyclist ants passes by.