By late morning the square had a second, quieter kind of seating: hammocks no wider than a ribbon, strung between the maples for the little coins of light that skip across the grass. They arrived in a glitter, tested the knots, and by noon were swaying as if the trees had invented a very small nap.
We asked at the kiosk. A woman with a paper bag said she had almost sat down, then noticed a glint already booked the bench-end, so she moved one seat over and felt oddly proud. In the park notebook someone had written that the brightest hammock prefers the middle maple, and that umbrellas should wait until the light has finished rocking.
The keeper posted a polite card: please do not fold the sun. The hammocks themselves are simple. They hold a patch of warmth, they creak once when a cloud passes, and they thank a bench that slides aside. A day later the same woman came back with a book, because yesterday a leftover sparkle had saved her a place.