Twenty-nine degrees.
Clink of aluminum bat.
The ball bounces once
on the infield dirt.
The shortstop misses,
and the ball
skims across the silver-frosted outfield grass.
The sun is barely above the horizon.
The players cast long shadows,
taller than the men they one day
will become.
Shadows longer even
than the boys’ dreams:
the homer that wins
the seventh Series game,
the picture on the baseball card,
enshrinement in the Hall.
When the boys leave the Little League
will they play on?
Or will they become accountants,
teachers, soldiers, saints?
One of them might even be
like me,
a solitary runner in the dawn.
