By first light the pond had a little counter in the air. The cranes stood in a patient row, each taking one letter onto a wing, while the keeper pressed stamps from duckweed and asked nobody to hurry past the neighboring bridge.
We asked at the kiosk by the reeds. "I brought a note for my sister across the water," said a man with a paper bag. "A crane took it as if the cloud were already addressed. I waited on this side. The letter that left was smaller than a thank-you."
The park keeper pinned a card to the rail: one letter per wing, duckweed side up, and please do not overtake a neighbor still choosing a cloud. A day later the same crane returned, left the morning on the far bank, and the bridge looked calmer than the path.