America

My cup is slippery and ice cold in my hand. The water numbs my throat. The salt from my skin mingles with it, giving it a faint trace of sweetness. I leave it. I step out of the shade and feel my shy skin tingle as it burns in the radiance of a brazen, shameless sun. I hear grass under my feet, carrying me to my position. The sharp crack of ball hitting bat shatters the silence of heat smothered fans, and appreciative shouts and whistles follow in its wake. Soft thumps, like ripe fruit, announce both spectacular catches, and moan-mongering fumbles. A thin thread of sweat caresses my temple, cooled by a welcome breeze. I watch a white sphere spin over me in the blue halls of heaven. I step back, opening the hungry brown jaws of my glove, and like a wolf snap it out of the air.