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I dig
the small splinter of wood
into the ground
cold and hard as steel;
my muscles are loosening
as I rise
and take in cold breaths
of fresh air
that tickle my throat.

My new shoes
squeak as I futily attempt to
dig my feet into the earth
with the same success
as a fish struggling to free itself
from a net.

My fingers
have gone numb
from the cold.

I practice
with confidence,
Concentrate
and fall into my own zone;
my backswing begins
and I unload a rocket
"Go left, left, left,
no right, right, right ...
into the trees, damn"

The setting sun gives the
small white ball an iridescent
glow as it sinks behind the
knoll with the sandtrap
nestled in the most precarious
of spots
and rolls to the rough-cut fringe.

by R. K., New City, NY