He picked up the stick
and tested it.

Not all that heavy, but heavy enough.
Not too long, but long enough.
Not too thick, but thick enough.

It was a good stick.

* * *

He put on his baseball hat.

He took the stick in his hands and
rested it on his shoulder.
He looked across the backyard,
toward what would have been the pitcher’s mound.
He lifted the stick off his shoulder a few inches and
held it tight and ready.
He took a swing with all his strength,
almost twirling himself around.
He looked where the fence would have been, and he smiled.

* * *

He put on his soldier helmet.

He took the stick in both hands and
held one end against his shoulder.
He pointed the other end
at what would have been the target.
He squinted his eyes and
looked down the yard about 50 yards.
He held his breath and squeezed his trigger finger and
made a POW sound.
The barrel end of the stick jerked upward.
He looked where the quarry would have been, and he smiled.

* * *

He put on his pirate hat.

He took the stick and
put it under his arm.
He held one end with his hand,
and strutted around the yard as if one of his legs was wooden.
He looked up where the crow’s nest would have been
and yelled “har, matey.”
He looked out across the yard where the
vast horizon would have been.
He put the stick up to his eye and shut the other.
He moved the stick from side to side, then
kept it still.
“Thar she blows,” he yelled, and he smiled.

* * *

He put on his cowboy hat.

He took the stick and
put one end of it on the ground.
He straddled it and pulled it up and down and
did a little dancing around.
He made a whinnying sound, then a snorting sound,
and ran around the yard with a little hitch in his step.
Occasionally he would slap the part of the stick
that trailed behind him.
He stopped and looked where the sunset would have been, and he smiled.

* * *

He took his hat off.

As he ran up the stairs to home,
he threw the stick away.



Harry W. Yeatts Jr.