They are the only ones that sing to me. I am the only one who plays them. Five brass trumpets, with three gilded buttons and a long neck like giraffes. Five who fill up my closet. Five instruments for me to play. From my bed, I can see them, but I dont have the chance to play them.
Their sound is beautiful. They scream music in the air. They blast high pitches and humm down to low pitches and they play with enthusiasm and emotion letting everyone hear their sounds. This is how they sing.
When on display, they impress standing tall like a tree from the ground, the sunlight gleams across them. Sing, sing, sing they say when I play. They inspire.
When I am too hungry and too thirsty to keep playing, when I can’t keep up with them, then it is when I take a break. When there is no sound downstairs in my house. Five who play despite the walls. Five who fill the house and do not stop. Five whose only reason is to sing and sing.