On February 10 the desert clock struck nine,
and the house filled with copper light.
A fast wind came off the glass,
and the home floor held its ground.

Yesterday’s news spoke of a tightened lineup,
of rhythm returning to tired legs.
The ball moved like warm air,
and the corners answered with clean sparks.

Rebounds were a promise kept,
second chances a chorus in the rafters.
A quick surge, a steady breath,
and the run became a shield.

Today the city wakes a little taller,
scoreboards still glowing 120-111.
Whether game day or quiet morning,
we carry the sun back into the streets.