Beginning

You are throwing a baseball

back and forth with your father.

He throws fly balls high up into the sun.

You position yourself and catch them

with a satisfying ‘thuck’

in the web of your mitt.

The mosquitoes aren’t too bad,

the temperature not too hot.

Your glove is linseed-oiled

and broken in, the baseball

scuffed with grass. A summer

stillness has settled right here.

You know there are butterflies,

birds and snakes and clouds.

You know the girl next door

is watching from her window

Your father leans back,

throws one as high as he can.

You and your armada move

gracefully under the ball.

‘Thuck.’

He throws a grounder bouncing

erratically on the uneven grass.

You bend your knees,

anticipate correctly. 

‘Thuck.’

The hunched crows

in the trees caw approval.

Now the hard ones come,

straight at you –

fast, right down the pipe,

time to move the mitt

but not to think

and the stinging dignity of pain

in the glove hand.

There is the girl in the window,

there is your father grunting

when he throws the ball. 

His arm grows weary

he looks at you and nods.

“Good,” he says.

         Buck