stopping the game

I recall
how hot is was. august.
wild
kids roaming sticky
tarred streets.
bare fields of dust and weeds,
stick ball,
the cardboard bases,
flat leather gloves,
baseballs losing
their stitches,
and the white long
Cadillac ambulance
slowing at the house
nearby.
we stopped play to run to it.
there was a woman white as the sheets
that covered her being rolled
into the long car,
her red hair
even more red
in the high sun.
her legs up, knees
in the air.
men in white uniforms
doing something
behind the dark glass windows.
the whispers of adults
about a baby.
it was horrifying.
as young boys,
standing, staring.
aghast. we couldn't run
back to the field
fast enough
when the screaming stopped
and the low murmur of a baby's
cry came out.