By nine the fair stall on Maple Corner was already spinning a weather of its own. Little sticks stood in a cup like waiting umbrellas, and the sugar clouds took them one by one, wrapping themselves with the care of someone putting on a Sunday coat.
We asked at the kiosk. A woman with a paper cone said the clouds refuse to leave until they have nodded to the queue. Each one finished a single pink turn, became a scarf just long enough for a walk around the fountain, and only then accepted a coin of thanks. A note in the stall's book read: Kindly do not tug. The smallest one is still saying hello.
The next morning the same stick came back a little sugary at the tip, as if it had saved the first loop for a regular.