In the cool hour before the first kettle, the dahlias by the front porch stood like students in stiff, folded skirts. A bee hovered at the edge of the class and waited to be greeted. Only then did the petals nod to the railing, as if asking leave to use the porch.
We asked at the corner kiosk. "I came for jam and stayed for the lesson," said a woman with a string bag. "They do not rush. One tier, then they stop. The railing looks proud."
The park keeper left a note on a leaf: kindly do not clap until the yellow dahlia has finished her first turn. The railing has already nodded, and that is quite enough applause for a Tuesday.
By evening a neighbor swore the flowers had hired a tiny dancing master. The next morning the same bee came back, hovered, and waited to be greeted again.