The Crack of Ball and Bat

The lights above the baseball fields in the park came on a few nights ago and their bright glare and the dark shadows they cast behind the trees and benches summoned not only the players and their spectators, but summer as well. Under their radiance I could clearly see the slow but determined greening of the grass as very thin but sharp blades cut their way through the yellow mash Duncan and I have been walking on since October. Not even the chalky crust of the tootsie-roll droppings left by the geese could hold them back. Winter seemed to sigh and loosen her hold on us a bit even though she doesn't even really show her true face until March and April around these parts. And so Duncan and I have walked in the warm evenings, sometimes without even a jacket, and when we return home I sit on the patio and watch the glow of the games and listen for that crack of ball and bat, the low cheer of the crowd and the shouts of the players yelling each other into home base. Our bodies are still in Winter but our hearts and spirits are far away, our faces turned toward the sun.