The wrens beside the woodpile started a morning choir in the cracks of the logs. Each bird waits on the bark, takes a tiny ticket, and enters only when the previous verse has finished.
A man at the kiosk buying kindling said the pile used to be quiet until breakfast. Now it hums, but only if you stand still. If you clap, they begin again from the first log, so the street has learned to nod.
By tea a late wren returned to the same crack and sang the opening line once more, as if to thank the stack for keeping its place.