The goats by the garden hedge kept a quiet hour for knitting. Each beard received a pair of needles no longer than a clover stem, bowed to the dew, and waited for the latch to nod before working a single morning loop.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate. "I came for jam," said a man with a paper bag. "A goat looked at my scarf as if the row were already taken. I stood aside. The stitch that followed was smaller than a thank-you."
The gardener pinned a note to the fence: one stitch each, clover on the left, and please do not tug a neighbor still counting. A day later the same goat returned, laid the needles on the rail, and left the hedge looking tidier than the path.