Underwater basketball

I used to go to the top of the hill
where the old farmhouse crouched,
protective, large and empty.
It was full of silent ghosts and spacious pasts.
Underneath the pecan tree, in the circle of stones
to the left of the driveway, sat a faded orange ball.
Old trees full of black holes and happy, healthy insects and all of their kin
cast a protective circle around the house at the top of the driveway.
There I felt the magic of being in an unfamiliar home.
Cycical breezes rustled the blades on the unkempt lawn,
waves of leaves traversed across the yard
towards my awkwardly large sneakered feet,
half running, half flying over rocks and dust.
As the sun bobbed on the horizon like a neon fishing float,
the white underbelly serenely floating in darkness like a piscine moon,
shadows seeped out from under pebbles
and flowed like water moving towards a larger source.
The chill of ghosts' breaths on my neck
compelled me to relinquish the ball to the encroaching
pool of shadows restlessly lapping underneath
the spicy conifer.

I left that familiar space before unlearned memories could immerse me.

Photo courtesy of Google images