By eight the flowerbed has already practiced one smile. The quokkas sit among the daisies with their cheeks still undecided, and the watering can waits at the edge like a polite host. When a daisy nods, a dimple arrives and sits down as if it had been invited to breakfast. Nobody asks for a second one. The first is considered quite enough until the kettle sings.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate. "They smile the way some people fold a napkin," said the woman who sells postcards and leftover string. "One careful crease, then a look at the watering can to see if that was enough. I tried two dimples once, out of curiosity, and the extra one politely stood up and went back to the saucer."
A neighbor rumor says the dimples are borrowed from the daisies. By afternoon the rumor has grown softer: the daisies were only lending the idea of roundness, and the quokkas returned it with a thank-you nod. The park keeper left the saucer where it was. "If the watering can has not answered," his note reads, "they wait. Yesterday a visitor came back at dusk still wearing yesterday's smile. That counted as morning too."