Picture-perfect, fall into a Provence-like sea of rapeseed flowers

A golden age amidst the folds of steel and glass As dawn breaks through the twilight, a splash of Van Gogh yellow explodes beneath the office towers. Cubicle captives, still revising PPTs, now wander with iced Americanos in hand, lost in a field of rapeseed flowers—a magical realism set piece, an Easter egg hidden by developers within the forest of glass facades. Crouching among the blossoms, adjusting a wide-angle lens, the sunlight catches the petals, casting shadows. Gentlemen in suits rest their coffee cups on the ridges, their alligator leather shoes sharing the earth with earthworms. The bees' paths between flower crowns echo the hand gestures of managers drawing line graphs upstairs. For a moment, the beating of wild bee wings resonates with the mechanical heartbeat of the elevator. From time to time, an auntie in a floral shirt comes with a bamboo basket to pick canola stems. Her silver shears flash with the same cool light as my new laptop. From her pollen-dusted apron pocket, a phone playing "Good Spring" peeks out. As the morning light touches her graying hair, the revolving door releases a group of young white-collar workers wielding selfie sticks. Silk scarves and rapeseed pollen dance a tango in the air. Suddenly, a few sparrows take flight, their wings slicing across the glass curtain wall, scattering light into the latte art below. This wild spring, caged within steel and glass, is fading. But a moment captured in a phone's album—the wind lifting shirttails and flower waves, distant stock tickers shattering into stars within the golden tide—perhaps this is a quantum entanglement of city and countryside: we are each other's shores, yet we swim towards one another.