A vast field of bright yellow sunflowers stretches towards a range of distant green hills under a clear blue sky. The sunflowers dominate the foreground and midground, with their faces generally pointing in various directions, some towards the viewer. A few dark green trees are visible between the field and the hills, and the sky is mostly clear with a faint haze near the horizon.

“Flobbadob-adob … Weeeeed!”

Sunflowers always remind me of Little Weed from The Flowerpot Men, a television nostalgia from my childhood. She — if that is the right word, given her ambiguous gender and equally uncertain botanical identity — played the role of quiet confidant to Bill and Ben, the babbling flowerpot duo.

Like other daisies, sunflowers are composite blooms. The bright yellow outer ring is not one flower but many, each a ray floret designed to lure in pollinators. The centre is a dense spiral of disc florets, arranged with such mathematical efficiency that even Fibonacci would be impressed.

Their heads tend to face east, sometimes slightly south, which draws in a flurry of insect attention. Contrary to popular belief, they do not follow the sun. What they do attract are bees, flies of every description, butterflies, and hoverflies — a miniature airborne circus.

Once the seeds mature, it is open season for finches — unless the farmer gets to them first.


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