We asked at the sandbox fence why a row of little pies wore stands no taller than a thimble. A girl on an overturned bucket said they were not names. "They say when the roof is ready. You have to read them out loud. The watering can is shy."
The park keeper pinned a note to the spigot: please wait for the nod. He pours only when a pebble on the chimney tips, very slightly, toward the spout. "They built it themselves," he said. "I would not like water on my roof before I finished the door."
The next afternoon the same pies were still there, a little firmer, with damp rings like quiet applause. A dachshund sniffed the flags, sat down, and waited his turn as if the queue applied to noses too.