Heard through the kitchen window the other evening a sound I could not place: a sharp metallic clank at irregular intervals, like the ring of a blacksmith's hammer but too slow—one clank every two or three minutes, the sound obviously far-off but startlingly loud whenever it came.
Slowly it dawned on me that the sound was carrying clear from the ballfields a half-mile away—the ping of aluminum bats on hardballs. Kids playing baseball, on a warm early summer's evening. Perfect.
I have lived in this house for ten years now, and it pleases me that the neighborhood still holds mysteries and surprises for me. That pleasure in no way takes the edge off my keenness to leave, though: I've got a aching for the road, an urge for going.
Soon enough.
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