I lay on my back on the strip of lawn
between our house and the Eklands’,
listening to the ball game as the narrow sky
darkened, waking the first stars.
The moon was low and big, the home team
winning.  George Freese was up
and you could hear the crowd’s expectancy and
praise, like leaves stirring in the summer branches.

A huge moth circled in the light from my bedroom
window, as though it had something to tell me.
Freese smacked a double off the wall,
clearing the bases, and my small radio filled
with a surf-like surge of celebration.

Everyone I loved was with me still, even my dog
and the sleek and philosophical black cat, Fang.
The grass beneath me was cool and soft.
I thought how it must be like this
for the angels: nothing to be
but what they were.  God lolling on his back
somewhere, happy to be among them, almost
absent mindedly switching on the rest of the stars.

Originally appeared in Cloudbank