The weather-vane shop on Ridge Street has begun issuing tiny bowing schedules to every rooftop rooster. North is first, then east, then a pause so south and west do not feel rushed. Only after that polite circuit may the bird turn toward the porch.
We asked the keeper at the kiosk while she threaded a paper timetable onto a copper tail. "They used to spin at the first puff and look as if they had forgotten their manners," she said. "Now they know who to greet, and the chimney never feels skipped."
A neighbor swore the roosters had joined a secret dancing club. The rumor lasted until evening, when a man with a grocery bag stood on his steps and counted four small nods before the vane faced him. He tipped his hat. The rooster, on schedule, tipped back.
The next afternoon a child came again with a crust for the sparrows and waited at the rail. She did not wave until west had been greeted. The bird turned at last, the porch felt included, and the sparrows approved by hopping one step closer to the crumbs.