Pittsylvania County

Ellen Bryant Voigt

In the front yard, my father and his son
are playing ball, the round egg arcs
toward a lap of brown leather, the sound
of an axe on green wood, a bass
hitting the water. The boy
could do this forever-only one glove
between them and he has it-the fireflies
already discernible on the hillside,
the grass wet, he doesn't falter
as he skirts the waist-high crabapple
or backs across the gravelled drive.
What am I after? Not shagging flies
on the lawn with my father, and not
drying the last dish with a fresh towel.
My father is a stationary target
through increasing dark, and out from my brother's
cocked proficient arm, the ball leaps,
of its own volition, into his hand.