By seven the fence already had a quiet row of red. Hawthorn berries stood in their green collars, each waiting for a coral button of the right roundness. The bullfinch on the top twig kept still, as if the morning could not start until the last button sat down.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate. "I thought they were arguing over jewelry," said the woman who sells jam. "It is only fittings. A button that hurries sits crooked, and then the whole vest looks a little surprised."
A notice appeared on the fence rail in a careful claw print. Buttons are issued one at a time. Vests that are still deciding should not be tugged. A berry who waits finds the winter that matches.