Crawling through this day's grass, I become aware that this grass grows far beyond and beneath what it is. Down into earth, the probing root fingers stretch through darkness where the only sight is touch. Do the root fingers know what they seek and why they seek it? Do they know how they transform black soil to green swords that split the spring wind into blue slices of beauty? But why should the grass question its own reality or ask the how of its green miracle? If it could question, then its tentacled, down-stretching fingers would tangle themselves in the question and strangle the jade flow of juices. To question the point of probing is to prevent the probe. Seeing the impossibility of the process, the green miracle of life would wither to the brown rustle of doubt.