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.