By seven the garden gate had grown a row of crocus lanterns. They stayed dim until a bumblebee arrived, tapped the first bud, and waited for a tiny purple glow. Then the next. The path learned to pause.
We asked at the kiosk. "I used to hurry past with the bread," said a neighbor in a wool hat. "Now I nod to the light. The bumblebees notice if you skip. They are polite about it, but they notice."
The park keeper posted a small card on the latch: guests may pass after one lilac good morning. Boots are asked not to count the lanterns aloud. The bees prefer to keep their own tally.