Dark rain
falls
at the ball park, where stripes of grass are glazed and green and orderly.

They say the ball game’s like life,
Sometimes it seems to be hit or miss.
But not when the dark rain falls at the bright ball game.

When the dark drizzles flash in front of the white cannons of light,
And feed on the energy of the crowd;
Growing into real raindrops, ones that splatter and splash and taste just like air.
The twinkling beads are the moment of realization,
When one knows they know, or knows one must go, or knows one can’t stop playing this ball game.
Air refreshed, the mind new—small drops into big rain, big time, big money—
A breeze ripples high and you know you know:
when the mist tickles fingers and drips into your hair.
A moment of transformation.