The Baseball Players

Against the bright

grass the white-knickered

players tense, seize,

and attend. A moment

ago, outfielders

and infielders adjusted

their clothing, glanced

at the sun and settled

forward, hands on knees;

the pitcher walked back

of the hill, established

his cap and returned;

the catcher twitched

a forefinger; the batter

rotated his bat

in a slow circle. But now

they pause: wary,

exact, suspended—

while

abiding moonrise

lightens the angel

of the overgrown

garden, and Walter Blake

Adams, who died

at fourteen, waits

under the footbridge.