Bright yellow green mixes with dark blue green, a living carpet to the edge supplied with water and no farther. Dusty brown, inches from the green where no water falls. Life requires water. Not far away steel cylinders made from hundreds of curved panels hold a reserve of the necessary liquid, more is held a hundred feet below, a massive unseen lake hidden from eyes but mapped out and confirmed by the long tongues of thousands of pumps. Just drops reach here. A plastic tube, connected to a copper pipe connected to a larger plastic pipe, connected to transite pipe a person with narrow shoulders could slither through; a continuous passage from the tanks on the hill to this place. Every other morning, as the sun starts to shine, just enough of the precious fluid is released from the plastic tube. Controlled drops fall near each blade of green carpet and maintain the life. The living carpet grows. It grows from one day to the next a quarter of an inch, an eighth? Unnoticed, a million lives strive to achieve the plan written deep within, to be taller, broader. Do they desire? Do they plan to be eaten or provide shelter? Do they look forward to the time they will bestow new seed and new generations? Do they fear me? As I walk toward the machine that will soon cut and capture the top two inches of their devotion do they dread? Will the living green carpet try with screams to be heard above the explosions turning the scythe?