After the morning shower, the puddle by the east bench hung a leaf across itself like a curtain. Rainbows arrived one arc at a time, trying colors in the still water and waiting for a single drop to nod before they climbed any higher.
We asked at the kiosk. “I thought it was just a puddle,” said a man with a folded newspaper. “Then red practiced a bow, orange waited, and yellow refused to skip the line. Very decent of them.”
A note from the park keeper, tucked under a pebble: fittings after rain only; please do not splash; violet is shy and likes a quiet surface.
The next afternoon a girl came back with a paper boat. The puddle made room at the edge. The last color nodded to the drop, then the whole ribbon appeared, a little damp at the hems.