By first light the garden brook had a receiving desk no wider than a pebble. The raccoons sat in a polite row, and each apple had to turn its cheek to the water before it was allowed to rest on a single warm stone.
We asked at the garden gate. "They used to rinse everything at once," said the gardener, wiping his trowel. "Now the fruit shows its side, the water nods, and I get my apples back in a little constellation. Nobody skips the queue, not even the green ones."
The next morning a pear joined the line and waited its turn. The raccoons issued it a stone of its own and nodded twice.