By the first light drizzle the copper links were already occupied. Drops held on in a tidy file, each one gripping the ring above it, waiting for the gutter to give a tiny nod before anyone moved.
We asked at the kiosk by the porch. "I thought the chain had jammed," said a man with a paper of mint tea. "Then I saw them taking turns. Nobody hopped a link. The roundest one waited longest, just to be sure."
The gardener who hung the chain last week left a note on the funnel: greet the spout, ride down politely, and sit on a mint leaf at the bottom. The pot, for its part, has started leaning toward the eaves at the first rumble of a cloud.
A day later the same regulars came back after a brief sun. They took the same links. The mint smelled as if it had kept their seats.