By noon the lawn looked a little fluffier, as if the weather had sat down for a fitting. The sheep had opened a daytime salon: each cloud was offered exactly one curl, a dew-drop mirror, and a patient question about which white felt kinder.
We asked the keeper who rakes the grass. He said the curls are borrowed, not clipped. A guest looks in the dew, nods once, and leaves the rest of the fleece for later weather. If you bring a human comb, he added, the lawn politely pretends it is only clover.
A rumor went around that the sky was moving in for good. By evening it was only this: three small clouds came back to show their new softness, and the sheep asked the wind not to muss anyone before tea.