By midmorning the maple on the avenue had drawn a quiet circle of watchers. Seed-helicopters took turns above the lawn, spinning once, then twice, then waiting for a blade of grass to nod before they settled at the root.
We asked at the kiosk by the path. “They used to land anywhere,” said a man with a paper cup. “Now they ask first. The grass looks less surprised.”
A note from the park keeper asked visitors not to sweep the practice circle until after tea, and not to clap, in case a beginner lost the count. The next day the same three seeds came earlier, hovering a little longer, as if the ant at the root had become the air-traffic desk.