The rose hips by the garden gate have opened a very small tea service. Each berry is offered a bag no bigger than a thumbnail. The berries greet the branch first. They nod to the kettle on the windowsill. Only then does a hip steep itself for exactly one winter sip, as if two sips at once would hurry the frost.
We asked at the kiosk. "I thought the fence had grown a row of tiny pockets," said the woman who sells stamps and twine. "Then a berry nodded at the kettle, the bag settled, and I realized I had been staring at the whole hedge instead of saying good morning to the one in front."
The gardener keeps a note by the latch. The bags, she says, are only the hips folding a paper-thin skin around themselves. Nothing with gears. A berry that has said hello is allowed one quiet brew. Neighbors who skip the greeting find a closed hip and a kettle that waits.
The next morning a neighbor came back with the same empty cup and waited through the greeting, the nod, and the one small steep. She said the rose hips looked as if they had practiced overnight and still refused to rush.