At sunrise the poppies by the fence formed a quiet line, green caps still on, as if the whole bed were waiting for a cloakroom ticket. A bee hovered at the front, and only after a nod to the watering can did the first bud let its bonnet slip.
A rumor went around the alley that the flowers had hired a tiny milliner. By noon it turned out to be kinder than that: the caps were the buds' own, taken off one at a time so nobody would startle the red.
The park keeper posted a note on the gate. Please do not help, it read. If a cap is still saying hello, the watering can already knows. Come back after the bee has finished the roll call.