By seven the path already knew which stripe was ready to say hello. The zebras stood in a polite row beside the square, greeted the nearest shoe, nodded to the bench, and only then opened a gap wide enough for exactly one walker. The next person waited until the clover had finished its little bow.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate. "I thought the city had painted a new crossing overnight," said a woman with a paper bag. "Then the first zebra waited for my boot to nod back, and the rest of the line copied the pause. My bun went warm from standing still."
The park keeper pinned a note to the railing: visitors may cross, but please do not hop the stripes. By noon the square already knew one quieter way to say after you, and a sparrow on the bench practiced waiting for exactly one shoe.