Spring in the Catskills

The boys are out

with their basketballs hugged close

or bounced high and caught.

The boys are out

with pants falling around their sneakers

hidden in careless folds.

They face the red stop light,

and instead go,

and the single car

cruising down the street slows.

The boys are out

chewing gum and staring,

watching and walking,

by the chain-linked used car lot

and the Hasidic market,

its doors lined with a sign

“Sushi Fresh Delectable Fish.”

It’s spring, the Catskills version,

the broken, brambled trees

exposed and held by frozen ground,

and melting mounds

of flattened grass in mud,

and tidepools of snow on the riverbanks.

The boys are out,

moving towards the cracked concrete court,

for hooped balls and possibilities.