I never swore I would not write a softball poem!
Darkness strides down the high hill towards the field.
Taking its time so the mist beneath it can depend
like a hanging plant, motionless every time you look.
I turn away to watch the game but something taps my shoulder–
the first drops of rain. People are running for their cars
With their softball gloves on their heads. Though it lasts
only five minutes, the rain turns the red clay infield
Into a giant thumb print of the storm. The umpire
examines it like a tired detective then calls it a night.
Unaffected as true fans, the bluebirds whir and swerve
across the outfield, shagging flies.