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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #1902968
Waiting for outdoor practice to end, I notice the season in flux around me.
Watching Basketball on a November Afternoon

As I bench-warm at playground's edge,
the woman next to me
drums delicate finger rhythms
on her newborn's back,
counterpoint to percussive thump
of ball on blacktop.

I rest my chin on fists,
consider colored chalk drawings
littering the ground like leaves
of leftover summer.

Warm sun persuades over my right shoulder;
chill shadow undercuts from the left.

Beyond the empty soccer field,
across fenced-out seas of gray-green weeds,
yellow poplars point emphatically up to blue,
unswayed by autumn wind's insufficient argument.

To the east,
rust-gold mountains recline,
wait for the inevitable.
Together we ponder the hustle and hurl
of rubber spheres across vacant sky.

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