Up before the light,
   coffee aroma rising,
   calendar stacked high.

Bracket still breathing—
        Dodgers through, (Sorry, Cinci)
        three series knotted at one…

        rubber games humming in the quiet before noise.

I place your voice memo
  just ahead of sunrise,
  timing it so the first sound you hear—

  “Good morning, Mari”

  brings a smile I can feel from here.

Emails line up
       like batters on-deck.

I work the corners,
  stealing glances at a box score
  I pretend not to refresh.

Mid-morning,
    the day makes its little demands—

I nod,
  take notes,
  pocket a cheer for later.

We’ve learned how to thread a scoreboard
            through the eye of a meeting.

By midday the pulse quickens:
       first pitch somewhere,
       second screen on mute,
   captions doing their best.

You ping me a thought,
    I return a grin disguised as words.

Afternoon stretches
          the way a tight game does—
                               long,
                               lean,
                         inevitable.

I let patience keep the count,
  saving the swing for when it matters.

Three days to Boulder,
      a steady distraction
      packed beside a sweater.

I’ll listen for mountains
     and still hear you anyway…

     that’s how this works now.

Evening will sort the outcomes:
              someone moves on,
             someone goes home,
 we’ll borrow each other’s joy
          the way we always do.

For now, it’s enough
    to keep the rhythm simple—
                          sip,
                         work,
                         text,
                        watch,
    carry the hush between us
            like a lucky coin.

A day shaped like a seventh inning—
                          not over,
                       not decided,
         but leaning the right way.

I’ll meet you in the updates,
     in the breath between calls,
     in the small beautiful spaces—

     where the morning we made
     keeps paying out
     all the way to night.