There is a song of crickets
beneath the rolling swell
of the crowd.
The evening sky opens,
spilling darkness
over the porch.
Light and avid finches
withdraw; I am alone
with the rumbling
of the night game.
Far from the city,
the lineups, the anthem
emerge from clack and static.
All the big plays, I know,
will be transformed
to frenzied obscurities.
The twitch of forearms,
the burn exchanged
by opposing eyes,
the forward-leaning longing
of the howling crowd
are all present and I, too,
lean into the night.
At the turn of fall,
the season's
hoard depleted,
I take my place
in a home uniform.
Light sways all around me
with an eager green.
On the hilltop porch,
the breeze turns cool.
There are broken
cheers from the crowd
as a bright sphere
shoots into the night sky.
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