At the frog pond rim, the deck clicked twice;
Spencer said, “Let’s test it small—that’s nice.”
He set a toy-sized copy on a stone,
while high cloud cotton crossed the gray alone.

Lex tipped one hinge: “Flim-flam, point and show!”
Callen Crow reached in to help it go.
But Aydin steadied what the hinge must clear—
two helpful hands had made no pathway here.

“Bim-bam, back,” said Lex. “Let’s name each part.”
They moved the model first, before the start:
Spencer showed the garden-bellward swing;
Callen kept one clear space by the hinge.

Aydin held the base where all could see.
Lex called, “Wait—then turn—one, two, three!”
A sprinkle ticked five minutes on the pond;
the air stayed still, so every click rang on.

“Zip-zap” meant pause. “Clack-clue” meant clear.
They tried the little choice; the path stayed near.
Then only the hinged deck went bellward round,
while four changed places by the vane-marked ground.

One slat had split where crowded fingers pressed.
Two coordinated parts could mend it best:
Callen aligned the edges, straight and slow;
Aydin held them steady, letting all four know.

Spencer wound a bright repair cord through.
Lex checked the hinge and called the new rule true:
“Show the next part before the hands all start—
make safety something seen by every heart.”

The garden bell gave one small, silver chime.
The mended deck swung clear and kept its time.
Its bright cord stayed—a seam they did not hide:
a visible mend, with four marks side by side.