As farmers keen to bed down
their spent summer fields, pitchers
lean in for a sign and one
more chance to beat a batter.
Every play now, every breath
is informed by the same chilling
scythe that swings a farmer
on his tractor into a last
turn, surrounded by hay bales
rolled into baseball-white sleeves
against outfield green. Over
the engine a radio is heard.
Thousands still their breath as a ball,
eighteen men, and a season move.