poorly lit

nights as a boy often went like this

I remember sprinting home from school, throwing my backpack down and bundling up in my toque and jacket. A flurry of boots and mitts, I sprinted back across the street to the parking lot.

Where, on the daily, magic happened.

Usually me and a buddy or two, a hockey stick and tennis ball, and a rusted, falling-apart goal held together mostly by love. We’d play through dusk into dark. Being the north, this was, of course, well before dinner.

So, we played under a little old , lonely streetlight attached to the school, orange-tinted, and not all that bright. But warm enough. It watched over us, all scuffle and hubbub, lighting our way, just enough.

For magic.

he shoots

he scorrrrrrreeeessss!

And, now, here, tonight, it’s like that.

The setting is different, warmer, quieter.

But equally dark.

Nobody around now, these days and nights.

Instead of hockey, it’s a soft, nerf-ish football arcing delicately through the air. The light is coming from an equally-lonely streetlight, seemingly wondering

where are all the people

For now, two of us are here.

And it is enough.

Our throws bending spiral bats, echolocating, impossible to see until the last minute. Flapping their way, and once in a while, even landing in our hands.

Like magic.