Stilly sits quietly on the porch with MOM, contemplating the myriad directions this next pun can go. Woodwinds? Percussion? Strings? Piano? Puns race at her from all directions. . . she contemplates slithering through the reeds to pizzicato Rapaire and Amos with a slew of percussive off-key puns . . . and gets so far afield it's worse than Garrison Keillor trying to get back to the point in his Lake Wobegone monologue. . . she falls asleep in the softly moving air, chuckling to herself . . .