Fields

The night was perfect for baseball. Everybody said so. Even the saxophone player on the Clemente Bridge with his case open for tips as he thanked us for nothing.

But we couldn't stop thinking about our walk that morning through our own yard and field, walnuts dropping on the hard ground as the sun rose, goldenrod shoulder-high, tossing in the wind that hissed like surf in the surrounding trees.

The game we will forget. The field we will not.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved