The crow roams the hole between short and third,
picks up and puts down his scaly feet
between snow patches that crust over the dirt skin.
He peers toward the plate
and squints a black marble-eyed challenge
to a ghost only he sees–
a batter who knocks snow from his cleats
with a phantom white ash club.
"Come on," the crow's voice cracks, "you can't hit one past me."
His weight shifts from foot to foot,
his wings, feathers spread, skim the ground–
black on white under winter's blue sky–
and he crouches,
waiting for April.
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