By breakfast the pond had set a saucer on every lily pad, each no bigger than a thumbnail and already waiting for a bead of dew.
We asked at the kiosk. "They used to land anywhere," said the park keeper, tucking a ticket stub behind his ear. "Now a dragonfly shows its slip, the leaf nods to the shore, and only then does the dew get poured."
A line in the guest book asked visitors not to fan the tea; the ripples were still settling.
The next morning a late dragonfly arrived with its ticket already damp at the corner, as if it had been practicing the landing all night.