The flowers
clicked gently in the breeze. Intrigued,
I plucked one.
The stem was
oddly stiff, and it broke with a metallic ping.
Inside, it was hollow, a tube with a long, thin cam shaft running down
it. The petals, blunt and angular,
gleamed copper-bright and polished.
I looked up
from my prize. The blossoms were opening
as the sun rose. They meshed, gear
linking to gear through the flower bed.
The clicking became a rattle, then a hum. A rumble echoed haltingly from deep
underground.
It’s March
now. The flowers are still
sprouting. The machine is not finished.
Yet.
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