through the half cracked window, the park is empty except for this soft-footed boy, shimmering in his indigo and canary baseball uniform at the edge of a lush green lawn. with a silvery bat glinting like a light saber in the filtered light, the boy is pummeling a makeshift batting practice machine that he grafted on to a low lying branch. every time he hits the trainer real hot, a sweet sound rasps the early morning air. and then, he smiles his very bated smile and went back at it again. so this is how to aim for perfection. first, one must always be light as in the hush that tiptoes around before the sun growls out. but most of all, one must unceasingly aim for that sweetest spot unlike the way i am leing this immaculate white bowl with sallow, wet petals.
