And elegance.  Near the bonsai were some raked gardens.  If that’s their name?  Sand garden?  Gravel garden?  Grave, to be sure.  A deliberate serenity, precision without measuring (I assume), just care, ordinary or extraordinary human care.

Focus.  I think of the maker and the making when I look at art, and this is no exception.  What happens when it rains?  What does the wind do?  Or a scurrying squirrel?  Ah, I might have to write a story or a poem about a scurrying squirrel — another day, another time.

And does it get re-made periodically?  How often?  By the same person?  In the same pattern?  I would guess you can take classes in raked gardens.  And perhaps there are raked-garden masters, national treasures, deservedly.