Scooters Sunflowers Nudists (Bonus Inside)

Imagine a field at the edge of a town. A dirt path curves through it. On that path, a rests against a wooden fence—battery dead, kicked aside by someone who decided to walk the rest of the way. Behind the fence, a riot of sunflowers leans drunkenly toward the afternoon. Their petals are the color of egg yolks and old gold. And beyond them, on a private stretch of riverbank, three nudists are playing cards at a picnic table. One is sunburned on the shoulders. Another is pouring lemonade. They are laughing about something that happened yesterday.

Perhaps that is the secret of the title. Not a non sequitur, but a recipe: Take one machine of modest motion. Plant a field of unwavering attention. Remove all unnecessary covering. Wait for summer. Scooters Sunflowers Nudists

is the plant of absurd optimism. It turns its head not out of indecision, but discipline—tracking the sun from dawn to dusk. It grows taller than any fence. Its face is a spiral of seeds, a mathematical poem. The sunflower doesn’t apologize for reaching seven feet high. It doesn’t whisper. It shouts yellow. It says: Grow where you are planted, but aim for the light even when the sky is grey. Imagine a field at the edge of a town