Looking at the scenery:

A little black bird, with a wing span no bigger than a man's hand, bounces on air just above our hotel room and dives for the ground several stories below. With a twitch of its fragile wings it uses a delicate breeze to vault itself back into the air and barrel roll out of the path of a soaring seagull. Other small birds join the flight. They twirl past tree trunks. They glide over graveled rooftops. Some just adopt the phrase "I'll go wherever the wind takes me" and allow themselves to be guided by the laws of nature. However, all birds rest their fatigued feathers on a large stretch of grass. Birds and flora alike keep themselves hydrated. Water is of endless supply here and chugs from left to right out of sprinklers that don't tire from the incessant heat of the sun. From the balcony of the hotel it seems as if the water never touches the green clippings of grass, but turns to mist seconds before. Observing the landscape as a whole it mimics a mirrored image of the letter 'S'. At the top of the S there are white mountains checkered in black that give curve to the horizon, nothing can be seen beyond them. Enclosed within the upper part of the inner S: water so light blue that the sky and clouds must have fallen into it; mixed together like paint in an artist's pallet and created a blend of turquoise as smooth as icing on a cake. Moving down the great slanted slope of the S the pier is just about visible. Cars can be seen too, their metallic bodies reflecting the rays of the sun, but they cannot be heard, they're as silent as the sea. Finally the S is complete by the grass mentioned earlier. Only the grass is sat in the middle of an oval track of gravel the colour of violet volcanic rock. It's a horseracing track but there are no horses; only birds swooping and snatching water from the sprinklers into their beaks.