By eight the croquet lawn had already formed a quiet line. The balls waited with tiny cards no bigger than a clover, each one ready to say its color before it rolled.
We asked at the kiosk. A woman with a thermos said the striped one spent a full minute introducing itself to a daisy. The park keeper added, politely, that the wicket will not open for anyone who has not first nodded to the grass.
In the notebook by the hoop someone had written, "Thank you for waiting. The lawn likes to know who is coming." By evening the same ball came back, card a little creased, and asked if it might try one more hoop tomorrow.