He startled me first crossing close to me on that bike-too-big for him. (Must belong to his sister - he barely reaches the pedals.) So I spoke friendlylike, and he looked, but circled the path again. (Cute kid, I thought.) ''Having fun?'' I asked. A look, but no response. He was alone, and I was, too, on that sultry July day. Was he too shy to speak or didn't it matter, so long as I watched adoringly? From six to sixty, who doesn't love to be noticed? I was his audience; he was my silent friend.