At first light the calendula by the garden gate lined up its petals as if a tiny office had opened. Each one received a pocket calendar the size of a thumbnail, greeted the sun, and waited for the latch to nod before drawing a neat circle around a single good morning.
A rumor went around the alley that the flowers had hired a clerk. By noon it proved kinder than that: the calendars were the petals' own, and they only marked one greeting so nobody would rush the orange.
The park keeper pinned a note to the gate. Please do not flip ahead, it read. If a petal is still saying hello, the latch already knows. Come back after the sun has been ticked once.