A pitcher tried to hit with a runner at third.
The runner scraped his toe along the third baseline until his laces turned dusty.
The man at home took a pitch, and took another one.
He knocked mud off of the bottom of his feet.
As if he’d spent all afternoon wandering along a river, catching pebbles between his toes.
He might’ve spun a flat stone into the current.
He might’ve picked up a stick to poke embers in a campfire, too.
This might’ve been enough to hold against his shoulder while awaiting a pitch to hit.
He flung the bat at the ball.
The runner stepped off the base again. He knelt to wipe his laces clean.
Someone handed him a glove.
The pitcher threw the bat away.
And picked up a baseball instead.
Were it a stone, and flowing river bubbles the strike zone.
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