By breakfast the pinwheel on the corner bed had put up a notice no bigger than a petal: spinning class at the first breeze, one revolution at a time, and no rushing the greeting.
We asked at the kiosk. "They used to whirl whenever they felt like it," said a woman with a bag of warm rolls. "Now the blades say good morning to the gust, then they wait for the daisy. My neighbor stood there a whole minute. He said the wait made the turn nicer."
The park keeper left a card on the stake, written very small so the flowers could read it too. Please greet the breeze. Please wait for the daisy. Extra circles after tea, if the petals agree.