At dawn the little weather house at the corner of the square put up a polite rope of thread across its porch. The figure in the hat waited behind it, practicing a nod. The cloud over the bakery was still deciding whether to visit.
We asked at the kiosk. "She never rushes the sky," said a man with a warm bun. "If the cloud is shy, she waits. If it nods back, she steps out and the other one puts the kettle on. That is the whole forecast."
The park keeper left a card on the tiny door: please do not tap the glass. The indoor figure is warming tea, and the outdoor one likes to finish her greeting first.
A day later a sparrow sat on the porch rail and copied the nod. The cloud, a little braver, dipped once. The hat went out. From the window came the smallest clink of a cup.