Just after sunrise the birdhouse on the square held very still, the way a classroom does before names are called. Starlings lined the gutter in a polite row. The keeper, who keeps a daisy tucked behind one ear for official work, lifted the petal like a tiny pointer and waited.
We asked him by the seed dish. "It is not a test," he said. "It is only so nobody feels forgotten before breakfast. Pip answers first because he likes the sound of his own name. Maple goes second and always nods at the maple across the street."
A note appeared in the trellis book by noon: "Present. The daisy tickled. Please do not skip Laurel; she was only tying a feather."
By evening the same birds came back, softer now, and waited while the keeper finished a yawn. A day later a newcomer chirped a name nobody had written down yet. The daisy paused, then made a fresh checkmark, and the whole row shuffled over to make a space.