streaks of orange and pink
paint the sky
as if a giant thumb has smudged
bright chalk over deep blue construction paper.

things look different in the dark
as if
a different world exists
but only until light appears

it is before the time I usually wake up
though I’ve been on this field for two hours already.

as the heavens begin to brighten,
people around me look less like
the living dead
and more like
just living.

for we are truly living,
we who spend hours
days
weeks
months
on the field
we who sweat and cry
and laugh
Together.

We
whose lives are entwined
whose hearts feel
one emotion

We
can be nerds,
speaking of crescendos
and sharps
and flats
and, sometimes, Tablesaw.
but

We
are those
who have earned the right
through time, pain, and friendship
to be called

Marching Band