By first light the violets on the kitchen windowsill had formed a tidy line. Each bloom kept a crumb on its velvet ear, and the robins waited on the latch until it was their turn.
We asked at the kiosk. "I used to toss breakfast out in a hurry," said a woman with a watering can. "Now I watch. They nod to the flower first. Then they sing one thank-you, and only then do they fly to the hedge."
The next morning the same robin came back and took the last place in line. The violets only nodded, and the whole room smelled a little more like tea and damp earth.