The ball is bounced
toward third, and with its spin
leaps over the bag,
landing in the green outfield.
Before we have a chance
to settle there,
the outfielder has it
on a line to second,
where we rest.
The rest is important.
For a while, we are not clocked.
We can wait until the cows
come into the bullpen,
or, if we choose, we cannot:
blurring past our coaches who touch their caps
in a sign of respect.
Surprise. Our runner’s
going, after all.
The catcher rises to the occasion,
arm following like a whippet.
He could have made a speech instead
but the crowd likes
this clean throwout better.
The pitcher likes it, too,
and rubs the ball until it shines.
The blue and white uniforms of the players
all shine against the late afternoon,
stopping time.