The first time I heard dawn’s crack of
sky-god bats, it was a long rookie year on the
Kansas plains, the west’s rocky range as an
impenetrable backstop. I woke up from dreams that
my old life had switched pitchers while a thunder-
shy farm dog back east grounded his trembling limbs
in my father’s lap, our dripping insecurities muffled
by the rain’s cheers for line drives on a new roof.
My eastern rules were not yet accustomed to
early steals by prairie storms, preferring to wait
until the baled hay was stacked high on base
inside some barn door’s afternoon yawn, rafters
rising over a stadium’s worth of ballpark food
for winter livestock. At storm’s peak, I still lingered
in the overhang, knowing my mother wanted
me safe at home in her worried dugout.
I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. Won’t you join me in poetry?