Bringing One Back

Stadium lights hold the dark at bay. Smell of fresh-cut

grass from earlier today. Leather in my hand

feels comfortable as skin. Hard to tell where one ends or where I

begin. I know where the ball's headed before the sound is made.

No game more familiar, no price left unpaid. There's a certain

kind of quiet where the outfield grass grows. Can you keep your head in

the game when a cold wind blows? Then the crack of the bat

is a deafening sound. Silence is the infield and its chirping hound.