By seven the bakery roof had already set out extra chairs. The violins came up the back stairs with cases still warm, greeted the cinnamon rising from the ovens, and waited for the pigeons along the gutter to nod before they played exactly one waltz.
We asked at the kiosk on the corner. "They used to rehearse downstairs," said the woman with the paper bag. "The loaves said they could not hear the downbeat. Up here the crusts keep time, and nobody has to shush anyone."
A rumor went around that the pigeons were stealing the tune. By the next morning they were only counting: one wing for the turn, one for the bow. The cinnamon had saved them a seat on the ridge, and the waltz did not begin until the window below nodded back.