At first light the phlox along the path opened a quiet powder hour. Each cluster received a tiny puff. They said hello to the dew, nodded to a passing boot, and dusted exactly one petal.
We asked at the kiosk by the square. A woman with a paper of seeds said the flowers were practicing for a garden ball. The florist shook her head. They are only lending the dew a little blush, she said. The park keeper wrote in his leaf notebook that the boot likes to be counted in.
By the next afternoon one phlox leaned toward the same shoe print. A single petal looked a shade softer, as if it had remembered the puff, and the dew kept the rest of the morning unpowdered.