The light, full and smooth, lay like a gold rind over the turf, the furze and yew bushes, the few windstunted thorn trees. From the ridge, the light seemed to cover all the slope below, drowsy and still. But down in the grass itself, between the bushes, in the thick forest trodden by the beetle, the spider and the hunting shrew, the moving light was like the wind that danced among them to set them scurrying and weaving. The red rays flickered in and out of the grass stems, flashing minutely on membranous wings, casting long shadows behind the thinnest of filamentary legs, breaking each patch of bare soil into myriad individual grains.
--Richard Adams, Watership Down
Look at that. How it swoops from a hawk's-eye view to an insect's-eye, smoothly, telescoping, with the crispness and precision of detail, texture, and imagery and the confidence and strength of a master.
This is the thing I failed to quite pull off in Whiskey & Water. But I tried, O Lord. I tried.