Morning in the square began with a short line of clouds. They waited above the fountain, taking turns at the easel, each holding still just long enough for a soft outline. The park keeper passed among the benches with a folder of sketches, handing them out like extra shade.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate, where a neighbor was buying a bun still warm. "They are not blocking the sun," she said. "The studio works in polite light. If a cloud fidgets, the easel waits. Sit down. You may be given your own weather by lunch."
From the keeper's notebook: cirrus shy until ten; cumulus posed twice; benches grateful.
The next afternoon someone returned with yesterday's sketch, hoping the same cloud would sit again. By then the whole alley already knew the contour, and the easel nodded first, then the sky.