The garden at the edge of the square used to keep a scarecrow mostly for show. This week he set two thimble cups on his left sleeve and waited for first light.
We asked at the seed stall. “They wipe their feet on the cuff,” said the grocer, counting beans. “Then they nod to the hat. Only after that does anyone mention the carrots.”
A line in the park keeper’s notebook: please do not clap; the carrot prefers a quiet good morning.
The next day a third crow brought a saucer of dew and sat on the other sleeve. The hat tipped a little, which the neighbors have decided was a thank-you.