Pittsylvania County

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.