By nine the flowerbed had a waiting clover and a handwritten card: indoor voices, please, and no hovering over a neighbor's bloom.
We asked at the kiosk. "They used to all land on the same daisy," said the park keeper. "Now each bumblebee takes a petal, turns a page of pollen, and leaves a blade of grass to hold the place."
A tiny note appeared in the gratitude book: "Finished a chapter on the left-hand tulip. Kindly do not dust until Thursday."
The next morning a latecomer arrived with a daisy already tucked under one wing, as if she had been saving her seat all night.