Dusk arrived a little earlier than the park had planned. The keeper, Mrs. Pell, walked the path with a basket of scarves no wider than a napkin and tied one around each lamp post, leaving the knot loose so the glow could still slip out. By the time the first moths showed up, the light was the color of tea left to cool.
We asked near the kiosk what the wool was for. "They were shrugging," said Mrs. Pell, as if this were ordinary weather. "A draft finds a bare post first. A scarf is cheaper than a lecture, and the moths approve." A line in the thanks book, written in pencil that still smelled of leaves, reads: the one by the roses looks proud and slightly shy, like a guest who was offered a coat.
The next evening a boy came back with a spare button sewn to a ribbon and asked if the tallest lamp needed fastening. Mrs. Pell said no, but she hung the ribbon on the basket anyway. The posts, for their part, stood stiller than usual and did not pretend to be colder than they were.