The red tulips were, at first, hidden in the weeds and shrubs next to the train tracks. This tangle of brush, all muted browns and dull greens, had taken over the steep slopes in a forgettable arrangement of plant life that blurred by my peripheral as I biked down Ravenswood.
But as I pedaled closer, their crimson petals emerged, spotting the brittle overgrowth in defiance.
Like dried spots of blood,
or a punctuation at the end of a matter-of-fact statement.
Making me stop.