“Wait,” the dandelions stop me before my eager hands can pull them by their stalks.
“Why?” I ask.
This is a morning ritual both of us are accustomed to. I walk down this path every morning, pluck a few dandelions and blow their seeds into the air, helping them spread their secrets far and wide.
“You’re earlier than usual,” they admonish me, or so I think.
The land is lit but the sun is yet to slip into the sky. Dew drops perch like transparent jewels on blades of grass, not yet sublimed into the ether. The breeze is cool and light, flitting away with the dawn before it can be sun-kissed.
But then they laugh and say, “Take a closer look.”
And I see what they want me to see. The camouflage of the morning frost hiding between their countless florets, white on white, clumping them together. I blow gently on them, and nothing happens. They’re not ready yet.
“There is a reason the light arrives before the sun does,” they say. “It is to give us time so we can return the secrets of the night to other faraway stars before the sun comes to steal them.”
I step back and let them do what needs to be done. A non-existent breeze worries their heads. Star-shaped wishes twinkle up towards the sky like dust motes on a sun beam.
When the orange head of the sun finally peeks out of the horizon, the last star blinks out of the morning sky.
“Some secrets simply don’t belong in our world,” the dandelions whisper.