There is a hill.
To most people, I imagine it is exactly that; just another hill that they pass every day. I, however, am fascinated by it.
Every curve is perfectly rounded, flowing into the next as easily as it slid out of the last. Each concavity reveals itself as a product of angle, increasing shade once approaching, disappearing as one passes. The lines are beautifully bezier; elegant yet simple.
In summer, before the harvest, long wheat blows out a wonderfully dynamic representation of the underlying hill; billowing those curves as sails.
In winter, after the harvest, short grass grows back, shivering back and forth as the cold wind pushes against it. Resolute, it stands.
I’ve never stood on the hill. In truth, I see it for 20 seconds a day, at most, yet still I admire it. Nature is a remarkable thing.