By first light the linden on the square had shaken out a pale tablecloth of leaves. The blossoms sat in a quiet row, as if someone had laid the smallest tea service along every branch.
We asked at the kiosk. "They used to perfume the whole plaza at once and leave the bees politely confused," said the woman stacking papers. "Now a bee lands, the nearest flower says good morning, the bench gets a nod, and only then does one drop of honey appear. The rest keep their sweetness until their turn."
The park keeper pinned a note to the trunk: morning tea school in session, one sip of air at a time, benches welcome if they do not scrape.
A day later the same bee came back for a second lesson. The flowers greeted the wing, the bench received its nod, and the tree, which had been practicing courtesy, offered one clean drop on the first try.