It's not quite a forest, not quite a meadow. A field gently speckled with trees with grass growing right to the trunk, a path meandering through. The path doesn't take the most direct route, because it's not, strictly speaking, "going" anywhere. The path is just going. It winds its way through the trees, up a hill, skirts a vale, and ends at a bench. The bench doesn't overlook a precipice, or a pond to feed ducks. It's just a bench; the view it enables is a view you can get from anywhere on the path, but now you can rest your tired legs. It's a view of simplicity, of beauty, of serenity.