He hated to pick flowers. Regarded it as a waste, both of time and of things that would otherwise live. Why intervene when he could only destroy?
Instead, he lay among them, in sprawling fields weaving dreamily in the breeze. He felt drunk among the flowers, with their buttery petals tickling his neck and their tangled stalks grabbing at his naked toes.
So it was that he was the only one who heard them sing. It did not happen every night or all at once.
Rather, it happened slowly. A murmur one afternoon as he lay in the sun. A whisper while he walked home in the evening. And one day he stayed a little later, lounging among the flowers. As the moon rose, the flowers stood straighter under its silver eye. Their petals turned heavenward and they exhaled, breathing together a single note of song.
He breathed with them.