By midmorning a line of chipmunks had formed at the oak, each waiting to borrow a stripe of sunshine for the back. By tea the borrowers looked a little golder, and the acorns had taken the next numbers.
We asked at the kiosk. I thought the tree had grown extra bark, said a woman buying sunflower seeds, until they all walked off gleaming. A neighbor insisted someone was painting the path. It was only the rental.
The park keeper pinned a card to the trunk: one stripe each, please return the warmth before the kettle, acorns may wait in the shade.