A basketball swings
around the perimeter.

Hand to hand.
The point guard sees something.

A cutter appears.

The ball arrives exactly
where it was needed.

For a moment,

everyone involved
looks like they knew
what was going to happen.

Sometimes you throw the ball
and no one catches it.

You cut toward open space.

No pass arrives.

You spend months
perfecting your timing

only to discover

the other person
is playing pickleball.

Dink.

Pop.

Doink.

Dink. 

Pop.

But every Monday evening,

the basketball leaves a hand.

The pickleball clears a net.

Someone calls for the ball
and someone answers.

For a moment,

movement is answered by movement.
Attention answered by attention.

The rare and beautiful experience
of not carrying the play

by yourself.