It was late october. The girls got off the pitch, in a cheery chatter, first plume of breath in front of them since summer, blush on their cheeks. They put on their coats, stuffed the shin protectors in their bags.
I saw an appearance on the desolate pitch. A nebula floated out of the woods, crossed the field, seemed to do a skip in extreme slow motion under the lights and slipped off, into the darkness.
It lasted about two minutes I think.
The fathers murmering in low voices, their car keys in their hand, I didn’t see them anymore. The giggling sounds of the girls reached me from a far away radio. The nebula hypnotized me; the day came to hang still. Quietness spread through my veines.
I was about to ask the girls’ attention for the silent miracle, but changed my mind. The field, the night, the autumn woods were saying goodbye to the girls with this dancing nebula. Behind their backs, as they walked to the parking lot, talking and eating raison cookies, it was far more beautiful. This way they were part of it with their light and limber bodies.