The line finds a curve at the baseball diamond – rounds out the corners, caresses the bleachers from a distance. A softening, and at the same time, the suggestion of force – as if the path were a curve ball hurtling through the air, barely missing the feet of the spectators. What if we left paths as we moved through the air, not only when walking over grass? Halos, or ghosts, pale behind us, hovering at every place that we find reason to pause.