Until the dark curtains fall over the calm blue sky

and the Sun and moon switch places,

My dad and I like to play catch

in our backyard’s wide-open spaces.

The tangerine-sized sphere glides through the air

like a pelican diving for its food;

the ball’s light blue color matches the cheerful shade of the sky, setting the mood.  

 We discuss our day, laugh over nothing, and lunge for the ball to avoid making it drop.

Our daily ritual falls uninterrupted,

and nothing will make us stop. 

Nothing will make us stop,

not even the blistering cold.

We just throw on a coat and gloves-

seasoned and old.  

As the fresh white snowflakes descend from the sky,

Dad molds a snowball and heaves it up high.

I sprint towards the snowballing snowball,

ignoring the bitter air,

grasping it with my gloved fingers,

covered with white like a polar bear.

We continue to play,

weaving through trees of pine.

This game is ours;

this game is mine.

Our game of catch will continue no matter what,

even if a rumbling earthquake causes the road to jut.

The magnitude of the vibrations equal a giant bouncing on a trampoline,

attempting to land on the stalk created by a magic bean. 

Despite the cracks in the earth,

we are able to manage.

Using the fallen debris as a different point of vantage.

Just as good on an incline.

This game is ours;

this game is mine. 

We play catch during anything,

even a tornado or two.

It gives the complacent ball

something new to soar through

As powerful as it is dark,

the cyclone grows more and more severe.

A sound comparable to a rushing waterfall

is all we can hear.

The spiraling storm catches the ball,

spinning it until it’s woozy.

Then shoots it out in a rush like a jet inside a jacuzzi.

The wind grows still as the storm begins to untwine.

This game is ours;

this game is mine.

Our play continues without us feeling tired or groggy,

tossing the ball back and forth as the sky becomes foggy.

Nearly impossible to see,

we are as blind as a bat.

So we change up our motion

and keep the ball flat.

Substituting rainbows for throws lower to the ground,

my dad was the catcher,

and I was on the mound.

A strike down the middle in a perfectly straight line.

This game is ours;

this game is mine.

We continue our game of catch, without a hitch,

even when the dusty terrain begins to twitch.

Off in the distance, there is a bevy of animals,

each a different beast.

Followed by the lip-smacking jaws of a lion pride,

ready for their feast.

Petrified, the prey are Olympic runners trying to be first.

Ball in the air, I leap off an elephant’s back with a sudden burst.

I grasp the ball tightly

like a monkey clenching a vine.

This game is ours;

this game is mine.