Walking through campus and what do I hear?
But a metronome screaming in somebody’s ear.
The closer I get the ground starts to quake.
At the powerful rhythm many drummers did make.
At their sight, I can only smile.
They brought up some memories that’d been lost for a while.
Of a cool, stormy night under a harvest moon.
Where those in the bleachers swayed and swooned.
Young eagles stood tall and marched on a field.
Even in rain, they refused to yield.
Their show began quiet, a nice eerie low.
Then a four-count wheel and they finally did blow.
Their song sent the audience in a cheering craze.
For these screaming eagles who knew how to play.
The horns boasted notes that gave you the chills.
While the drums were strengthened by sure wills.
Even the flutes, though soft, could be heard.
Their arms actually straight, no trace of a curve.
To no surprise, those eagles claimed gold.
Even though they were quite shivering and cold.
A year of pride and great celebration.
They took the gold at every occasion.
Through their days they practiced in heat.
Keeping in rhythm to a pounding beat.
Just like these drummers, swinging their sticks.
Staying in time, tick after tick.
So now, I’ll pause and give thanks right here.
For the metronome screaming in somebody’s ear.
Written in June, 2018. Feature photo taken on my high school band trip.
