The long side faces north
with space round to chase and hide. I look up
from behind by the red maple sprout
or in front by the new oak, at the one and-a-half
story roof and shout
“Annie, Annie Over!” at a cloud,
feeling proud (can’t think why now)
if my ball clears the roof pitch putting me into
harm’s way—at once I’m fair game
wherever they burst from, however they target
unless I slip through.
All those years ago with baby trees
and no autumn leaves.
Now the front yard fills
with taupe oak
but the porch is all-over pink.
In the downwind
comes “Annie, Annie Over!” I look up
to see the maple from the yard behind
shaking its leaves onto the front-facing shingles
to perch,
assessing with more sense than I ever had,
how and where best to land.