Each summer, we are gathered together 

during the final two weeks of our break.

I’ve always found it to be the perfect calm

before the storm of the school year overtakes.

For weeks on end, we practice,

drilling patterns and rhythms into our mind.

Peach and plum streaks stained above our heads

as a golden dust settles over us with a sigh.

I look around and smile to myself softly,

fit in a laugh with someone before the next rep.

Hustle back to work through a tricky measure,

get in position when the major shouts “set!”

On Fridays, we fill the stadium's bleachers

and blare our tunes with pride.

Then pile back onto the stuffy bus,

for a rowdy, karaoke-filled ride.

We march our way across the field

bounce to the pulse, heads held high.

Pull out crumpled bills for a snack shack dinner

and buy a candy gram for a friend or five.

In four months, we create something beautiful,

something that the rest of the world doesn’t quite understand.

Because for us, this is what we live for.

We are the marching band.