Along the creek at eight, the kingfishers lined up on a stone and collected tiny fishing rods for their beaks. Each bird said hello to the water, nodded to the sedge, and waited for a single sunbeam to settle on the current.
A rumor from the next garden claimed they were stocking a pantry. By noon it had turned out to be kinder: they fish only for light, hold it for a blink, and let it go shining downstream.
The park keeper explained the rods in one breath. They are willow twigs with a thread of dew. The hook is a courtesy, not a catch. When the glint arrives, the bird lifts it, bows, and the creek keeps the rest of the morning.