The distinguished gentleman strolled by us again. He never seems to notice our splendor of glowing yellow as he speeds by leaving us in a blur of indistinguishable color. We demand his notice. He will see us tomorrow.
Our blooms explode in the morning sun. Some cannot hold on any longer and burst into a downy ball of fluff. He walks by as normal with not so much as a glance in our direction.
“He Paul,” a voice calls out. “You gonna do anything with those damn weeds anytime soon?”
He pulls out his glasses and he finally sees us.
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