By first light a line of sparrows had already formed beside the bench, each bird lifting one foot and then the other as if practicing for a fitting. The felt boots were no bigger than thimbles and sat in a shallow tray of snow. A sparrow that had said good morning was allowed exactly one pair.
We asked at the kiosk. "I came for a newspaper and stayed for the queue," said the man who sells warm buns. "They wait so politely that I started whispering too. When a neighbor hops too soon, the keeper just holds up a grass lace and everyone remembers the rule."
The park keeper posted a small notice on the lamp post. The boots, he says, are only yesterday's leftover snow packed soft and stitched with patience. Nothing with gears. A sparrow that hurries the next paw finds the tray empty and a lace that waits.
The next morning a woman came back with the same crumbs and watched the same bird take the same careful step. She said the tracks looked rounder than yesterday and that the sparrows still refused to rush.