Dear Small Trot,

You are the only one who ever called me Pog, dearest friend.  And I have missed you these last few years.  I am living north of your city - in a neighborhood where church bells ring out on Sunday mornings and the park at the end of the block was nicknamed Worm Park by the children who used to live here because when it rained the little stone ponds would be flooded and suddenly full of the slumbering worms living in the channels that filled them. The church bell ringing is fine with me.  I am a light sleeper as you recall.  But also a lover of all beautiful sounds.  Speaking of which, do you still sing? 

Your Own Dear Pog