Thousands sit in a pleasant June din.
Bored, for Nunez has not yet made
the graceful swan dive across center field
to rouse us from our slumber in the third.
The calls of peanut and beer hawkers
Are almost echo loud in the aisles, a testament to the
fact that while the fans are in the stands
Their hearts are distracted.

The organist calls out, we halfheartedly respond
A series of claps, a call to charge…somewhere,
But our hearts are not quite in it yet
The home run of the sixth is so far away.

Then, a brassy call to beat out vendor, fan, and organist alike.
Cutting loud and sharp across right field
Cutting as your wings cut rushes in the retention ditches of home,
where you should be nesting.

In that call I am back fishing, listening to WBBM on a crackling radio
Bored because my dad won’t explain radio baseball
Bored because the fish aren’t biting.
And then you alight nearby, giving our your call
A flash of crimson shoulder, a bolt of energy in the creeping twilight.

And now here you are again to rouse me from my stupor
High on the foul-ball net you call out,
But who could answer in reply?
Which of us could hope to meet your fervor?
Or could we all, collectively, rise to your mettle?

Instead we fall quieter than before, humbled
That in one call your voice carries louder and farther
Than all of right field, that your small frame could
Command such a sound.

Nunez leaps, lands, sliding a good five feet, ball in glove.
We leap up and cheer, awake and alive,
And you join in, part of the great song of summer.

****

The song of the red-winged blackbird