February glass over Phoenix, and the rim turns narrow.
Up 26-21, the noise is copper bright,
then the third quarter hardens into desert wind,
97-81 etched like chalk on a blacktop wall.

Jordan Ott keeps the huddle stitched and steady,
asking for sharper cuts, louder help, one more sprint.
Collin Gillespie lifts a clean look through traffic,
Grayson Allen hunts daylight at the arc,
while Ryan Dunn and Royce O’Neale chase every loose breath.

No excuses, only recalibration:
Devin Booker healing a sore hip,
Dillon Brooks mending a fractured left hand,
and the roster learning new geometry overnight.
Mark Williams boards, Jalen Green pushes pace,
small sparks carried hand to hand.

Tomorrow’s opponent is already in the hallway,
but so is stubborn light.
In this city, losses do not end the song;
they tune it lower, tighter, truer,
until the next tip rises from the heat.