A Moment on the Course A white hole in a sea of green I stand about 10 feet away Grass like a two day beard All that stands between me and a birdie Following the afternoon sun The small blades linger in the same direction Camouflage of color Lime, crocodile, parakeet and pickle I close my eyes and feel the rhythm of shoulder muscles Leather in the palms of my hands One more look at the shrinking target Back and through the ball travels atop the submissive poa Just lips out Walking past the red, brick clubhouse Down the black, paved cart path to the tenth tee I get my first glance of the October forest beyond the valley This ain’t no paint by numbers scene And it's not the screaming orange Not the vivacious red Not the calming yellow All framed in the dawdling, dying green leaves And it’s not the maze of lush fairways Weaving around the rippled ponds Not the tall burnt umber reeds dancing with the wind It is the all, the all at once And whatever it is it makes me ask, “What’s the real game we're playing?”