By eight the maple already had a quiet class. Flying squirrels stood on the lowest branch, greeted the bark, and only then nodded to the birdhouse. After that they glided, one at a time, exactly as far as the next trunk.
We asked at the kiosk by the path. "I thought they were late for breakfast," said a woman with a paper bag of seeds. "Then the first one waited until the birdhouse nodded back, and the rest of the line copied the pause."
The park keeper left a note on the bench: guests may watch, but please do not point until tea. By noon the neighboring trunk already knew one polite way to catch a visitor.