By seven the path had already formed a polite queue. The tulips stood with their cups still closed, and each bud waited for the bee to finish saying good morning before it would pour even a sip of light.
We asked at the kiosk. "They don't open for just anyone," said the woman with the newspaper. "Yesterday the yellow one nodded to the trowel first. Then it filled itself like a tiny teacup."
The park keeper left a note on the fence: please do not tap the rims. The class is pouring one swallow at a time, and the trowel is taking attendance.
A day later the same bee came back and sat on the fence as if it had a reserved seat. The smallest tulip poured a second sip, no larger than a dewdrop, and the trowel leaned a little closer, satisfied that nobody had rushed the lesson.