Ideals

He holds the blade of grass reverently. An almost indulgent expression flits back and forth across his bronzed features, as his eyes crinkle in black shining delight. The tiny hairs dusting the fresh blade are incandescently golden in the brilliant glare of the sun, and the green glows bright. Each delicate vein running from end to end is in sharp relief. Then those thick calloused fingers tremble, and for a moment the lines blur, before stilling back again into that innocent, enthusiastic, almost amusingly impertinent way grasses hold themselves up. He laughs, relishing the simple beauty around him – the fervent blue of the cloudless sky, the lush rippling sparkling green of his valley, the rich earthy tones of the rutted roads that thread their way through the waving stalks, and the how everything is shouts dazzling joy in the solid yellow sunlight. Satisfaction slips its way into his eyes and he breathes in deeply. He, for one, is contented with his world.

Happiness reverberates through the valley, its sound ringing clear as a bell.