The meadow that once was dry is wet now, covered by puddles and rainy water. Stretching for miles is uneven terrain. The little inconsistencies make what life isn't perfect. Still considered a flat grass meadow I suppose. Still beautiful I suppose too. Anyone can enjoy the beauty of a modest breeze, whistling trees, the smell of pine, and bright green, lush grass. The occasional mushroom and flower in the rows of same grass shows different. Arguable that we are the grass, seeing it more clearly, we are the mushroom and flower. Grass is our insults.