Suddenly, there is a blur in front of my face. I try to see it and I do not see anything—there it is again. I see a flash of green and scarlet and realize that there is a hummingbird hovering over my head. It rockets, hovers, bounces, and dodges unknown particles only it sees, and now it is less than a yard away looking directly at me. It dives into one of the moonflowers and in a split second has zoomed up into the sky without a trace. I wonder if they are illegal in Arizona, too. I can see me–the flower seed rebel wearing a bright cannabis leaf green, purple, burgundy, spiral pattern tie dye t-shirt, riding on a giant hummingbird set up with saddle bags filled with morning glory and moonflower seeds. Everywhere we go we spread color—from the moment of our blurry arrival to months later, when all those illegal vines sprout, leaving color on the ground in the wake of our flight path. I exhale again watching the smoke vanish into the sky where the hummingbird has gone to contemplate our future together.