The Little Birds Keep Singing

by Martin Steingesser

The Little Birds
Keep Singing

When the sky grows
suddenly dark
before rain — maybe
a thunderstorm,

the path I am on
through the woods
grows darker.
Earlier, before losing myself

as I do
going my own way
into the woods, I stopped
to watch some kids,

Little Leaguers starting
a game.  I was surprised
the pitcher
really had a fastball

and could burn it
over the plate.  Strike!
the ump would call
more than once.

Lilliputian batters
nonetheless are belting
his pitches —
line drives,

long fly balls,
sending outfielders
running, all of them
playing hardball.

On my path, the wind
had picked up
some urgency
among the trees,

a heavy scent —
new growth, or something
old from under
last summer’s leaves.