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The ball hawk patrols his green range-
eyes lost in the shadows
of the bill of his cap,
alert to small movements-
takes flight,
it seems,
as the ball leaves the pitcher,
before the quick music
of the crack of the bat
darts the ball
toward the emptiness behind him.
Betrayed by the wind this night,
the ball falls.
There is no escape.
The ball hawk seizes
it in his talon grip
and circles toward the dugout
as easily as thunder
rolling through a summer sky.
