By dusk the hedge had grown a little window. A nightingale sat behind it with the patience of a cashier, and the first listeners arrived with empty pockets and very good manners.
We asked at the kiosk. I came for matches, said a man with a folded newspaper, and stayed because the fence finally had a front row. A neighbor insisted the tickets were valuable. They were only petals, still slightly warm from the rose.
The park keeper posted a note: one phrase each, please return the petal to the bush. The next evening the same man came back, this time with a second newspaper for the sparrow who had forgotten a ticket.