wrote this at the beginning of the summer. A Game of Ball In the evening when the lights come on across the field, across the street the noise rises, begins at first at fresh dusk from the chatter of ball playing boys. I, however, have my small room, windowed well by three tall frames open on the street. I have my books, I have my work, now slowed to a crawl in the struggle to complete. "We need a pitcher!" now says one bright voice "Not a belly-itcher!" comes the response. I pause, where before I had stopped. This choice is at hand - drown all the voices at once, close the windows on air, on sound, on all 'round, or surrender to a game of ball.
