I take the reins upon the park bench, look down the path, and discover a direction sign in the shape of a red cross. This is my greatest hour when the solitary bench is approached by the stranger eating burnt toasted bread, eyeing my ripe and well grown vegetable stuffed pockets. “Thief! Thief,” I exclaim. Those bread crumbs look just like my tomatoes! It’s a poet’s life I’m trying to describe here. Where else could such literary vegetables grow except in the pockets of a thief? My voice must be indoor quality or they may revoke my quilling privileges. Those are not nibs falling out of my purse, those are bebe’s. I like to shoot clay pigeons in my down time. On the bird feeder, seen from the literary window, there are always birds that eventually fly away or end. My only thought, I am in charge, until the robins arrive. Like swallows, they throw the dandy script into the thicket where the crows peck at it like critics. I shall fly south for the winter and the fall and possibly spring. I will return only for Indian Summer. Brighter days are for hidden fruits and stolen vegetables. Summer is for musicians not lyricists.