By midmorning the winter hats had grown a little more polite. Along the lane the pompons issued tiny tickets to their fluff. Each tuft greeted the ear, nodded to the scarf, and only then bowed to exactly one passerby.
We asked at the kiosk by the square. "I thought the hats were waving at nobody," said the woman who sells mittens. "They were only taking turns. A pompon that bows twice leaves the next walker without a greeting, and then the whole street looks as if it forgot how to say hello."
The next morning a sparrow came back and sat on a lamppost until one small pompon had finished its bow. After that the scarves sat a little kinder, and nobody skipped ahead.