A phoenix-colored bellflower surveys the composition of one glorious spring afternoon as only a flower can experience it. She is a Codonopsis clematidea, a wondrous little adolescent blossom swaying gently in the sweet-sung breeze.

Just as her vine-sisters, she is a bursting orange sensation, identical in appearance. But even as the other petal ladies clump together on the high end of their vine, she is removed.

Instead she dallies lower, angled towards the sparkling pit pond and its inhabitants. This nameless flower is thoroughly uninterested in her sisters' chirping gossip of blue jay and cardinal affairs, choosing rather to study the mundanely fascinating going-ons of the tadpoles, minnows, and brim.

To be honest, she thinks the sky-scope pedestal that her sisters hang upon is a shallow endeavor, but regardless, a distinct wall of exclusion is present. She knows that if she were to ever want a place on the high-vine, she would be refused.

The odd little bellflower watches in rapture as the plump, yet still-tailed toad children lounge nestled along the gray mud bank. They are a calm presence, all scattered among the tittering minnows, each of them quite visible in the sunlit water. A stately oak arcs over the small pond, casting a reaching shadow starkly across the surface, and it is low near the trunk where her end of the vine is curled.

As she is passively gazing upon the aquatic infrastructure, a lone bobwhite alights upon her oak tree. He is a small puff of a bird, with a pattern-freckled breast and witty black eyes.

The bobwhite gives a throaty chuckle as one of the mischievous minnow nips in curiosity at a brim's tail, and is promptly walloped by it. The bellflower says nothing, but wonders privately what a jaunty little personality such as this bird-fellow is doing so near to the ground.

“Ah, there's perfection in a soothing day as this, yes?” he trills suddenly to the air, cocking one inquiring round eye to her vision. The flower hesitates, unsure of this abrupt geniality.

“Well yes, there is. Today the sun is generous to us,” she answers softly, a bit shy.

With her answer, the bobwhite nods his beak in acknowledgment, “Indeed, and if I may say so, it does suit you quite well, lady.” Following this pronouncement, he warbles cheekily and winks, flitting away before she has the sense to respond.

The little flower watches as the bobwhite rejoins the others birds and her sisters in social matters, away from her quiet contemplation. She feels an inexplicable sadness at this development, though she knows she should not dare be surprised.

Thus she reminds herself of the facts: that she is still an unconventional and solitary little bellflower, with no companions save the universality of the pond's occupants. Her brief encounter with the impish bird-fellow was an anomaly at most. The flower sighs and begins again to watch the pond-life, alone. She knows well enough when she does not belong.