the dew casts a white glaze on the grass
reflecting the steam and fog hovering
like ghosts from the night before
the chalk still smudged, waiting to be redrawn
muddy footprints interrupt the glass surface
from where the losing team left their hearts on the field
the chill in the air has remained constant
but the dry bite has faded into a soft damp blanket
helping the ground to heal
the sky is invisible, now by the haze hanging overhead
and not from the eye-piercing lights
illuminating the crowd that has since disappeared
the battlefield is tired, but the shrapnel is scattered
from where the spectators left it behind
not the combatants
he moves through the infinite staircase
collecting his treasure
pausing to watch the ghosts as they perform the instant replay
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