Morning Fog in the Soccer Field, 2022

The fog was cloud-thick as the man and his dog ventured out into oblivion. You couldn’t see the cars, but the hiss as they passed by found them in the field. Honking shadows glided down from the sky, their scattered calls organizing a shrouded gathering.

They combed the field for food as the dog maintained a measured distance, keen to be a cautious observer. The gang bullied their way across the desolate soccer pitches, the grass worn down to damp dust from thousands of running feet.

Men would gather after work and descend upon the field from trucks advertising landscaping and house painting businesses. They’d flock from them, parked along a gravel road with two port-a-johns under a couple of pine trees marking the halfway point. The field, almost silent now, with air so thick you felt it could be cut with a knife, would be bursting with shouts, laughter, camaraderie.

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