We overhear the body and bowl connection,
muffled words of technique and tactic
as one man strings a stare to the far end.
The jack, alone. Parched upon the ground.
The knee bends, an arm swings slow,
casting a cradled bowl low in the palm
to the ground, departing hand to shadow,
a quiet transit, swift without a sound.
From all the years of practice, the fights,
the conversation, the rebellious spurs,
the regretful aftermath, he knows,
and quite rightfully so,
not to throw the bowl too hard.