it's a long
fly ball in
the air, you
started back
as soon as you
heard the crack
of the bat, you
caught a glimpse
of the white ball
streaking toward
center field,
rising, gaining
speed, it might
go over, it
might die in
the breeze, in
the thick summer
heat, but you pivot
and go, to the fence,
your cleats cutting
deep into the grass,
then feeling
the gravel of the
warning track,
and you glance
back to see
the spinning white
ball about
to go over, but,
you stride hard
and long then leap
and throw your
glove to where you
hope the ball
will be, you are
in the air, free
from the earth,
above the grass,
above the field,
in the moment. if
you have done
everything there is
to do.