I am from the Grouse trails in the UP woods,
the smell of the moss-covered rocks and fall leaves.
Seeing my breath in the rising sun,
hands wrapped around the cold gun metal,
Dad going through brush on my right,
heart beating rapidly.
My heart beating rapidly in my hollow chest.
When’s the next flush?
I am from the glassy calm water,
the slightly musty vest, slipping it over my head.
Not a ripple on Hagerman.
Handle goes taunt in my hands,
Dad guns it and pops me out of the water.
Muscles flexing as I make my first cut,
how low can I lay it down?
I am from the dusty, dirt fields.
The freshly cut grass
watching the break on the pitch come for the dirt.
The Rawlings leather gripped by my fingers.
Coach claps telling me I made a block,
legs shaking from dropping and blocking.
I feel like I’m playing in the big leagues.