You were never just brushing off burrs; you were finishing what they started. Each time you flick them from your sleeve or pluck them from your dog’s tail, you carry their future a little farther, then cast it into a crack of earth they could never have reached alone. They wait there, patient in the dark, gambling on rain, on time, on you.
What registers as petty irritation is, in truth, a kind of partnership. Rooted bodies have found a way to move by borrowing yours, stitching themselves into your commutes, your hikes, your errands. You are not a victim of their persistence but a co-author of their migration. In every stubborn burr is a silent agreement: your brief discomfort for their unfolding chance, your wandering path for their next green beginning.
