At first light a rain barrel by the maple lined cork floats along its rim. Leaves arrived in a rustling queue, held on with both stems, and only then nodded to the water, asking if a single quiet lap was allowed before breakfast.
We asked at the kiosk. "They always come home," said the park keeper, wringing a maple leaf as gently as a handkerchief. "If the water nods back, they paddle a circle and climb the bark. If it waits, someone is still drying on the hoop."
The next morning a copper oak leaf returned, tapped the rim twice, and waited while the water found a calmer swirl, just under the shadow of the spout, still round enough for one polite lap and a bow to the maple.