By seven the daffodils had already lined up along the fence, trumpets still folded like napkins. Each yellow tube waited for the boards to finish saying good morning, then glanced at the watering can before sounding a single sunny hello.
We asked at the kiosk. "They won't blow just because a cloud is watching," said the man with the paper bag of seeds. "Yesterday the smallest one nodded to the can first. Then it played a note no louder than a teaspoon tapping a saucer."
The park keeper pinned a note to the gate: please do not cover the tiny horns. The class is practicing one greeting at a time, and the watering can is keeping score.
A day later the same can came back and sat in the grass as if it had a reserved seat. The smallest daffodil played a second hello, no longer than a blink, and the fence leaned a little closer, satisfied that nobody had rushed the lesson.