Reflections on a baseball morning

As the first hints of approaching daylight begin to diminish the pre-dawn darkness, the white chalked foul lines, left over from the previous night's games, are the only indication that this is a ballpark.

From the top row of the bleachers, the early-morning walker, pausing in his daily crosstown jogging route, begins to see the outline of the oaks and cottonwoods that frame this beauty spot from behind the outfield fences.

No traffic is yet audible in the neighborhood except for what is probably the groaning and beeping of a garbage truck beginning its rounds. But there are other sounds as well. The birds who either live in the park or are passing through are immersed in conversation from one treetop to the next.

As the sky turns from black to dark blue, then to light blue, the expanse of space in front of the viewer assumes its proper shade.  Despite the heat and the drought of recent weeks, it is gloriously green.

It has now been 45 minutes since the walker took his seat in the bleachers to observe the arrival of the new day. High in the heavens, where the rays of the rising sun have already reached this part of the country, the contrails of an early-morning flight to somewhere already reflect the sun as the plane silently creeps across the sky.

A pair of cars motor past the field headed for downtown, taking some folks to work. The newspaper delivery guy pulls up in front of a house across the street, gets out and fires his missile toward the front porch.