Every time the Angel of the Harvest witnesses the natural world's inherent violence a flower of possibilities opens inside it's heart.

It wishes to intervene, to stop the fighting.
It wishes to intervene, to save the lizard.
It wishes to intervene, to help the cat.
It wishes to cheer and whoop in excitement to see such an incredibly violent display.
It wishes to hide until these terrible beasts have passed it by.
It wishes to close its eyes to spare itself the blood and the memory of blood.

But it does not. This is what is meant by the natural world and its abundance. The cat needs no help from it, and it is not such a marksman that it could effectively land a killing shot amidst this whirl of muscle and violence. There is nothing to offer those with strength enough to take, no pack-friendship to give to an ambush predator, no understanding of the dangers and motions of these creatures. There is nothing to offer, and so it witnesses.

But if the cat is injured all of that will change. Then it will offer health, and to draw forth the thorn from the lion's paw.