Parable of the punctured ball

Because we are made of knitted clouds
and embroidered grass. Because the sun
puts her bare hands on our heads. Is it
a blessing? In any case we are chasing
the ball like we are hunters. Sweet little
hunters. Aged poplars are standing
around the football field like rigid but
reliable guards. At one of the goals a crow
is sitting. Every time we score a goal, she
starts to flutter and flies away. To return
to her spot again, immediately. So we play
a whole afternoon, a whole life. We cry,
we tackle, we get dirty, we are bleeding,
we cheer, we embrace one another. Until
the ball gets punctured. We stop, we look
at the withered plastic. What to do? Some
-one has a knife. He cuts the ball in half.
"Now we have two hats," he says. He's
right. And we go ahead. Another game.
Another world. And the crow? She sits on
the bar. She knows her time will come.