The marching band lines up as planned; a hush
descends upon the crowd. A whistle blows
and sound explodes as synchronized toes step
along invisible lines, forming shapes
that change with constant motion—musical,
the flow of sound and form, from bodies trained
on scales, arpeggios, silence and noise;
the note, the rest, a breathing, living art.
The sharps, the flats, the majors and minors—
so natural it seems to those who watch;
a language that transcends, extends beyond
uncultured words that speak of hate and hurt.
A hundred pairs of feet go marching on
as hands beat drums, triumphant trumpets blare,
and woodwind reeds make airy melodies—
this music binds together everyone.