I’m lying by the open
window with the smell
of loam mocking
my senses, and a magpie
beats its wings
and the air shudders
like the crack
of a bat when wood meets
leather at ninety miles
an hour during what I see
as the first inning
of the first game
of the first season
after we no longer need
to cover our faces in fear
of the unseen terrors
in our lives.