The whistle cuts the sky in two,
Sticks rise like antlers, hearts collide,
The grass remembers every shoe,
And ghosts of games still run beside.
Sticks rise like antlers, hearts collide,
The net hums tight, a storm contained,
And ghosts of games still run beside,
Where speed and grace are unrestrained.
The net hums tight, a storm contained,
The sun glints off the masked and fleet,
Where speed and grace are unrestrained,
And thundering steps and silence meet.
The sun glints off the masked and fleet,
The grass remembers every shoe,
And thundering steps and silence meet—
The whistle cuts the sky in two.