Northeast of here, a vortex, spinning, pushes a bank of rain toward the field, announced by a misty odor of drying rockweed, and bleached, abandoned shells, picked nearly clean. The pitcher plops down on the mound, his legs straight out, toes pointing toward home plate, then the first baseman hunches down and tips over on his side, eyeing the coach. The shortstop flops, flat on his back, legs splayed out and fanning like he's making angels in the snow, and the outfield collapses as a unit, rolling and kicking like calves in spring. I lie on the banks of Fort Sewall. Suddenly, the benches transform into cannons.
Trees become young soldiers.
Townspeople cheer as the proud bow of Constitution steers into harbor. At night men gather around a blazing fire. Their triumphant songs rise to meet the surge of ocean waves. When I walk on the old roads, I hear the drumming of Glover's Regiment marching over faded cobblestones. On the steps of the Town House the crier is ringing his bell.