a flock of black birds bursts across
the gray sky above a late fall dawn, then
splits in two like a pair of receivers
heading for opposite sidelines.

        I’m not much of a defender this morning.
let everything score, let the last roses kick
field goals, let the tall, wide-shouldered deodars
plunge over the horizon again and again.
watch how in the far pits the sturdy clouds
hunker down against the blitzing light
while perky pyracanthas strut their orangey stuff.

        already there is traffic noise as some fans
have left the game before it’s over, yet nobody loses.
it’s like that moment at a great stadium when
you’re going off to the john or to get a beer
and you pause on the cold gritty concrete to hear
the vast, informing silence that coaches everything.

A version of this poem appeared previously in Aethlon: the Journal of Sports Literature.
Used here with the author’s permission.