They are seeds disguised as debris, architects of inconvenience with a purpose etched into every hook and barb. Each one is a traveler that cannot walk, a migrant that cannot choose its direction, yet finds a way by clinging to whatever brushes past. Your jacket, your socks, your dog’s tail all become unwitting vehicles in their relentless search for new ground.

Away from the shadow of their parent plants, these hitchhikers gain a chance at light, water, and space. Roadsides, pastures, city parks, and forest edges turn into vast conveyor belts of life, powered by footsteps and fur. You may curse as you pluck them from seams and laces, but their persistence is the quiet proof of a larger pattern: nature using you not as an enemy, but as a bridge to somewhere else.