Journey Poem

Hole 18. Par 5. 461 yards.
Almost on in two, but hooked left.
Who cares?
I don’t – I can’t.
The only number
That has any meaning is ((3)).

No more hazards.

I now stood there beneath the tree. Focused.
I could see the Field. I knew the
Line. I anticipated the
Break.

No more roughs.

There was a light breeze on this bright day.
But beneath the tree,
I was shaded.
The branches had blocked the sun and all
Distractions.

No fair way.

I could not think of anything else. The past 17 holes
Mean nothing. Gone were the sounds of success
(Whoosh, Ping, Oooh, Aaah, Thwump, Whack) and
Failure (Chick, Snap, Crunch, Kurplunk, Oh).

No score.

Hands gripped to the club. Feet on the ground.
Arms up and followed through. Textbook
Swing. The ball bounces and rolls.
And rolls.
And rolls.
And rolls off.

No chance.

That was the moment I saw the most beautiful spectacle fly away:
An Eagle