Off day hush in the Valley, a court of light
sweeps clean the blue silence before San Antonio.
We fold the map of travel, the plane ticket warm,
and breathe between possessions.

Devin Booker keeps rhythm in a quiet gym,
a metronome of footsteps, patient and exact.
Royce O’Neale talks angles, small hinges of defense,
Mark Williams lifts the glass like a steady sunrise.

Reports carry the Spurs game to Austin, a road light,
a reminder the break is done and work resumes.
We tuck the nerves into socks, lace them tight,
and choose a calm that travels.

Let tomorrow ring its bell; tonight we sharpen.
A city keeps its ember low, then bright.
Suns names, current and breathing, lean toward the rim,
and the Valley waits, warmed by a practiced glow.