But here in North Carolina, where the big tender bulbs must remain in pots to be carried in for the winter, they seem more like exotic pets. . . slow-moving, to be sure, but fun to watch.
Or perhaps the unfolding of the bloom is more like a lovely ballet. . .
What seems like a single dancer alone on stage in a pas seul begins to move and separate . . . now there are two . . . or three . . . or four. . .
The music? Bolero, of course. Perfect from the small still beginning all the way to the blare of horns at the end.