It doesn’t feel right to give something so marvelous, so dizzyingly wild, a compliment. That’d be claiming that we have the right to look at this water and decide whether it’s beautiful. And looking at the pool is the opposite of that: It’s feeling very small, both incidental and fortuitous, like maybe the star-matted water would look at us and say, I think they’re pretty, and the moon and the cave and the falls would nod: You always did have good taste. How could you not? You’re the center of the universe.
