I take a baseball and toss it as high as I can.
My toss fails to puncture a cloud.
My hands fail to catch the ball when it returns to earth.
The ball’s white hide is now grass-stained.
I determine to practice until a throw punctures a cloud.
I require a great deal of practice.
A crowd gathers to watch my tosses.
No one interferes and some cheer me on.
The cheers apply to good tosses.
Ones that come really close to the clouds.
The crowd enlarges and people at the outer edge
are not quite sure why they are here.
Nor can they see me toss the ball
even though they do see the ball go up and up and up.
The fringe of the crowd starts drumming and dancing
which diverts part of my crowd to become their crowd.
Other parts of the fringe play music on instruments
while others startup rope-skipping competitions.
So the crowd’s attention is now split seven ways to Sunday
but it is Tuesday and the saying fails.
On my eleventy-twenty-third toss I hit a cloud
but do not puncture it as planned.
I think the cloud took pity on my tiring arm
and lowered itself.
Though it may have wanted a closer look
at the drummers, dancers, rope-skippers, and crowd.
The cloud rains just a little. Not much.
But enough to dampen a square inch of each shirt in the crowd.
We continued until it is nearly suppertime
when everyone disperses.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney