Orange Poppies

On the coastal trail where you and I would hike, the glowing orange poppies flare like small flames. They do not ask for attention but they bask in it. Wind caresses and moves through them. The muddy path seems to glitter. I stop without intending to. A hummingbird arrives, fast, and hovers over a bloom. Its flapping wings make a humming sound that reminds me of you. The poppies do not yield. The bird does not linger. Then the wind shifts, and the flowers all turn at once—not toward the sun, but toward something behind me I cannot see.