Foggy morning, the air warm and the snow wet and damp, crusted with clumps of ice, fading. Was walking around where the fog is thick, near the woodlands beneath the turnpike, where downtown begins to border the heights.
The crack of wood against ball. In the bleachers are family members, friends. They are yelling run. You can hear their excitement. The bat is flung. Cleats take off in the dirt.
Just memories now, the usual ghosts.
You can hear them when snow covers the field. You can see them in the fog
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