The shadows of late afternoon have given way to the evening dim.
On this side of town, one street lamp stands against the darkening skies.
It intones a mercury buzz and back-lights the old masonic hall.
Looking over the field, phantoms of detail shift and dodge from my sight.
The sweaty day has led to a windless night and from within the darkened exterior echoes a voice.
It is louder than the window fan and rings clear; one letter followed by one number.
I heard the silence before the storm and felt the concussion from a battalion of ink markers striking their pads in unison.
One dynamic call followed by a magnificent beat.
Suddenly, without warning, someone yells “Bingo!”