The first warm day since autumn’s onset—
and sounds of soccer practice drift
across the street: the coach’s whistle,
his animated urging, the familiar
thunk of contact as the ball sails
toward its intended target
to a chorus of cheers. Behind glass
in the building next door, a line of girls,
their supple limbs a sheathed uniform
making a pale pink movement like a wave.
A woman waiting on the bench turns to ask,
And how is your daughter? In this as in all
things, the metronome ticks audibly:
measure against measure, unfaltering,
timed against the pulse that set it there.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.