By nine the paddock already smelled like warm weather. The alpacas stood in a polite row and handed each wool fiber a tiny pass for the clouds. The fibers greeted the wind, nodded to the weather vane, and only then let one warm thread go up, no encore.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate. "I thought they were losing fluff," said a woman with a paper bag of apples. "Then the weather vane nodded back, and the thread went up like a scarf the sky had reserved."
The park keeper posted a small note on the fence: guests may watch, but please do not hurry the next fiber. By noon the lawn already knew one quiet route to the sky.