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.

TMK 22jan2010