Before the first cart rattled down the street, the wagtails lined up along the curb. Each bird handed its tail a tiny pendulum. They said hello to the puddle, nodded to a pebble, and swung exactly once.
We asked at the kiosk by the square. A man with a paper of seeds said they were practicing for the tower clock. The florist shook her head. They are only wishing the water a good morning, she said. The park keeper told me the pebble likes to be counted in.
By the next afternoon one wagtail came back and sat on the same stone. She left a speck of dust on the curb, as if it were a calling card, and the puddle kept time through tea.