The Baseball Players

Against the bright
grass the white-knickered
players tense, seize,
and attend. A moment
ago, outfielders
and infielders adjusted
their clothing, glanced
at the sun and settled
forward, hands on knees;
the catcher twitched
a forefinger; the pitcher
walked back of the hill,
established his cap,
and returned; the batter
rotated his bat
in a slow circle.
But now
they pause: wary,
exact, suspended—
while abiding moonrise
lightens the angel
of the overgrown
garden, and Walter Blake
Adams, who died
at fourteen, waits
under the footbridge.
—Donald Hall