baseball game

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Against a wind-filled sky, above the my youngest son's baseball game yesterday, a single turkey buzzard floated from here to there, there to here. It was as if the bird were playing with the wind and the wind played back ... a couple of old friends so far beyond friendship that the word "friendship" did not apply.

The same wind whistled through the nearby trees that were budding but not yet dressed in their leaves-to-come. Literally whistled. The wind whistled through the trees. The trees whistled back ... another friendship on a sparkly day.

"I wouldn't mind this except for the wind," my daughter commented. "I hate the wind." And the wind messed with her hair as old friends will.

On the field, the wind raised up dust and the dust rose to meet the wind. The players didn't complain -- or not that I heard: They were too intent on the game to worry about old friends. They all had hats, so the wind could not ruffle their hair.

My son's team lost -- big time -- and the turkey buzzard had a box seat to it all, if s/he bothered to notice. Maybe that's the way it is with old friends -- true friends: Sometimes we are too busy to notice and really there is no need ... they are with us through and through.
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