The Park Northern pintails brushing blue, the crescendo of their wings, weaving windsong into words some say that, “Up jumped spring.” The rising sun, through veils of dun, atop a pool of glass with flitting beams, does bend the streams to cast a liquid brass. Children fashion cradles, and white whiskers out of string, and fumble through foxed pages, grazing grass on slowing swings. Some, in a pensive mood do trace the wisps that form the whale, as froth stirs in a weightless sea the poets long to sail. And yet, despite the fluxing airs that turn the tails to grey, those perched below, where quill pens crow, will write of how they play. The Boy With No Name There once was a boy with no name upon who no man could cast blame, who by his born right, despite being bright, could never cash checks off his fame. Family Tree An apple once asked of his dad, “Why is it our bunch is so bad?” To which he replied, “Guess it stems from the side of Smith, for it’s granny who’s mad!” The Clever Man There once lived a man who was clever who thought he’d invest in a lever. One dime for each yank, attached to a bank, he’d coin as "A Gripping Endeavor." Amy Struthers is a peasant with a penchant for writing in rhyme. Presently, she resides in the Bay Area with her parents and cat Clio the Corruptible.