You get up in the dark early early morning down the stairs down a glass of orange juice down the lane to the wooded park to hunt for commas like you always do this time of year.
In the damp soil beneath the oak and bay trees beneath the mushrooms the litter the duff behind the burrows of sleeping insects and caches of acorns set there by squirrels you poke and prod as if at a bee's hive to goad the commas into making an appearance. Shivering tired eager you turn over the soil careful to put it back when you're through until at last! you have found a nest where an entire family of commas lie the warmth of your breath making them stir and wriggle awake until pop! they spring into the air where your net is poised and ready to catch them.
Pop pop pop and the nest is empty a twist of your hand and the net is closed small peeps coming from the punctuation marks inside and now it's home home to warmth and coffee and muffins and the typewriter eagerly awaiting your return by the kitchen door.