Caught looking

A poem

Beneath Broken Arrow power lines,

Drummond Island in damp knee-high grass,

Croton and Henning Park, warmed in last

light; the ball turns purplish orange with

short tosses upward before it lands in soft

leather, like the fitted glide of putting on

Sunday shoes. I love the motion, the rhythm,

the movement of the seams – spinning, floating,

dancing, guided by higher, misunderstood things.

Deer watch from the edge of left field as coyotes

canter in right, in royal view of the town water

tower across the river, last in feeling the sun,

framed in center. Practicing our knuckles and

curves like boys who never wandered into the

woods, never stared down wolves in new darkness.