By seven the porch already had a quiet glitter. Icicles along the eaves kept a little queue of drops, each waiting for a slide of its own roundness. A mitten on the railing stayed still, as if the morning could not start until the first drop had nodded to the gutter.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate. "I thought they were arguing over who goes first," said the woman who sells jam. "It is only manners. A drop that hurries lands too loud, and then the whole step looks a little startled."
A notice appeared on the rail in a careful frost print. Slides are issued one at a time. Drops that are still deciding should not be shaken. A drip who waits finds the sun that matches.