Before the kettles on the surrounding porches had quite made up their minds, the square handed the morning mist a comb no larger than a teaspoon. The mist accepted it with both hands, or whatever a mist uses for hands, and began at the far hedge.
We asked beside the flower stall. A woman with a thermos said she had watched the lawn go from sleep-rumpled to politely parted. "He nodded to my usual bench," she said, "and only then did the wood look ready for a newspaper." A boy in a too-big scarf claimed the daisies stood up straighter after their tufts were smoothed.
The park keeper posted a note on the gate that might have been written for weather as much as for people. Fog may borrow a comb. Fog must greet the benches. Fog may stay until the first cup of tea, and not a sip longer. After that the grass is considered finished, and anyone may sit without spoiling a part.
A day later the same comb was back on the keeper's hook, still slightly cool. The mist returned only to wave from the hedge, then left the lawn looking as if it had remembered its manners overnight.