a third beginning

Baseball was over. All arenas housing. Not long after, bombs fell. Ash rained. Someone woke up under snow and a thousand years had passed. A thaw, maybe aliens. Here was a diamond. Here were books or videos: history of a game. The sticks fascinated-- the distance-traveled, the arc of rebounding spheres. The dugout required a certain relationship to patience, civilization. They practiced. The world was summer evening, each pitch a true love: nothing outside interfered with the game's perfection. A thousand years. Someone woke up, this time inside the game. Not long after, tears fell. Diamonds roiled beneath ash--it was a history of shame: blunt objects, dysfunction, the art of unfounded fears. Foundational ones. A thousand more years and someone dug out—beyond arena, into nature. It took practice, but nothing interfered. The world was a green evening. If only summer would last all day. Continue under the lights.