By eight the square was already practicing patience. The city peacock stood on the lawn like a very glamorous clerk, a stack of seed-sized tickets tucked under one wing. Feathers did not rush. They waited in a polite line along his back and only stepped forward when their number was whispered.
We asked at the kiosk across the street. "I came for a bun," said a woman with a paper bag, "and stayed because the lawn kept nodding. It felt rude to leave in the middle of a roll call." A boy on a scooter reported that number twelve took an extra moment to bow, and the grass approved.
A notice from the groundskeeper was pinned to the fountain: please do not clap until the fan is complete, and kindly keep picnic blankets one step back so the tickets can see the ground. By late morning the peacock had opened exactly one full wheel of color, then closed it as gently as a shop door at lunch.