Imagine getting old enough to teach a grandson dice games.

Never happen.

There will be holograms programmable on your home court.

Or headset participation: you are guarding Gary Payton,

hooking over Alcindor. Athletes will become prototypes.

 Arenas will be built in condo walls.

One day someone will say Jordan wasn’t real. We’ll lose the feel.

I’m so glad to have made the transition from black and white to color

to 3D quadrophonic and back to balsa.

The flight of the crumbled free.

Here we are amidst many armies, listening to steel guitars.

What honor has been bestowed upon us

with the quick disintegration of time,

watching beauty explode in its daily ministry, light to dark, red to blue.

There is no telling what to do. Just look to the woods.