In the desert hush after a rough road night,
footprints cool on the hardwood, wind in the rafters.
We carry the bruise of Austin lights,
but the sunrise still writes our chapters.

Devin Booker rests his hip to heal,
the city wraps him in quiet heat.
Grayson Allen tapes up patience and steel,
while teammates sweep the lane, street by street.

Tomorrow, Orlando at home awaits,
a noon shadow stretching across the floor.
We gather the ball, reset the gates,
and stitch the seams for one more roar.

No trade-wind rumor can thin this sky;
it’s sweat, it’s grit, it’s steady fire.
The Suns keep rising, refusing to die,
a low sun lifting a higher pyre.