SeanWard.org

Something in boys whispers throw,
but don’t just throw, take aim, learn
to do it well. We pick up rocks, throw
until we hit our mark, until our arms
ache, until we learn there is a time and
place where throwing is appropriate. 

We grow, become men, linked to the
games, the hunt, often forgetting
trees gleefully ascended with small
gripped hands and well placed feet as we
move among the contemporary structures,
offices, suburbs, access roads, cloverleafs. 

We crowd houses, bars, coliseums, climb
into bleachers, up onto stools, sink into
easy chairs. A ball is thrown, hit, kicked;
a man is thrown, hit, kicked. We cheer.
We stand and wave our arms, wail from
our guts, remind ourselves that 

at our most primal level, we are men, we
are hunters and providers, and we are not
alone.