The grass was damp with the sweat of the sky, jagged blades were shards of glass, stolen from the abyss of the clouds. The beads of dew grew into a shattered necklace, one of bubbles meant to embellish the outfit of the sleek, young sun. The only sound was perplexed and irritated by intermittent caws of the rage of hawks, the sentinels of the sky. Snakes of the broken sea blew in streams, deafeningly silent, rivers of the golden, starlight tears the stars have shed. When the light has retreated to bed in the west, furnished flairs of moon topped the mountains and sky. None of the furnished cerulean that covered the sea up above in blankets of painted stripes remained, only fractures of rugged brunet shaped an elliptical sphere of light, not dim nor artificial. Broken silhouettes of hill formed lumps of bald head, only the mere outlines stood proud, flickering, fading from the painted strokes of shredded slate cloaking the night sky. The night hovered. Lingered. It watched its people down below with a million flashing pupils, light-years away. The night tasted peaceful artistry in the refinement of the perfected trees as if they were just molded clay made ornate with a handful of gradient gold leaves. But the trees could not express their beauty and left to only rage underneath the towering moon. The moonlight grew sticky in the fingers of the stars. The stars blinked. They breathed. They drank all the moonlight they could before the moon had dissolved and the sun had risen from bed down below the emerging thread of the horizon, where the land and sea met. The beads of the necklace and shards of the clouds bellowed for the waiting stars to yield to the light dispersing within. It spread from the land to the sea, horizon to hills, mountains to rivers. The night and day might be at different poles, but they all live in the same world, shine on the same glass, the same dew, the same world as they had always been in. That is and will be until the end of this world of pervading beauty of nature.