By morning the eaves had a quiet queue of straw. Swallows circled once, twice, then set their nests in a careful row, each one a little rounder than a teacup. A ribbon of dew waited on the gutter, trembling as if it already knew it would be worn.
We asked a neighbor by the kiosk. "They judged by how kindly a nest held the wind," she said. "The roundest one got the dew. The rest sat on the next chimney and had tea, which is a very swallow way to lose."
The day after, two more swallows returned with a spare twig and asked if the contest took late entries. The chimney nodded, the dew made a smaller spare ribbon, and tea was poured again, just enough for one extra guest.