We approached a field that appeared to boast a crop of rice or some such short grain. Though speeding ahead rapidly, the small vehicle progressed smoothly, wrapping around the spindly gray snake that was the paved road. It was beautiful; the field appeared to be naturally full and solid until viewed at an angle vertical to the rows of grain, and only then could one observe the fascinating texture of the plane. The stalks of grain and the line of moisture that lay complacently between were hidden until faced dead-on, when the stark differences were juxtaposed, side by side. How rhythmic was the vision of the light glaring back at me from the water of the field, how the line of vision curved and danced with the movement of the car. It was a stream of fluid pouring horizontally down the flat field that stood before me. There was neither a beginning nor an end; this stream appeared to be lacking an origin and it offered no final result. Rather it just trickled down beside me, dancing between shades of pale-brown harvest and blinding reflection.
