My sisters and I sit on the hill in Nanny’s yard, spy on wild rabbits in Grandpa’s garden, as they munch the early seedlings while keeping a look-out for trouble about, pick yellow daffodils and white crocuses to clutch until they wilt, and watch Uncle Pippi push the seeder along the dirt, drop the seeds in his garden.  It’s Springtime.  We sit on the hill across the street from Uncle Pippi’s garden at the corner of Maple and Gardiner Streets.  He plants seeds a quarter inch or so deep in the ground and covers them with gray soil, presses down well so the seeds take.  He bends at the waist, legs spread widely apart, head bows religiously to the ground, wispy white hair circles his hard, chiseled cheeks.  I think of words from a religious song, “Inch by inch and row by row, God bless these seeds I sow.”  I pray to God to help the garden grow, yet, it seems with or without my prayers, the garden always gifts us with plenty.  Our silly chit-chat, mixed with brooding-hot-tempered, girly-gab rabbits on along the breeze, over to the garden, flows north along the I-95 highway and east towards Weed Beach, out over Long Island Sound to the Atlantic Ocean, to the winds that blow, and perhaps our voices rest on a foreign land, far, far, away, such as Korea.