little blue marbles in a pile
by a shallow hole – surrounded
by little boys in smart uniforms
huddled around discussing relative
value, and the merit of each size

oblique sunlight suggesting winter
but lying summer between crab
shaped clouds and thin knobby knees
whispering to the dry dusty dirt
anything is possible

the action starts again – the voices
jibbering about as the dirty-blond boy shoots
a miracle through the air, through the moment
into the midst of the cerulean spheres
cheers the crack and the roll and the stopp
ing.

Silent, he counts.
They count.

Rules forgotten he is punched
again and again and again
– the marbles are gone
he wipes the dirt from his mouth
and walks away.