there, in the near distance, are the faint warbling sounds of a marching band meandering in through my window on a slight breeze. i can hear them louder now. they are playing "when the saints go marching in."
the trumpets are loud and brassy. the trombones out of tune. the tuba sounds like he is tired and his playing is jutted, forced and weary.
the woodwinds sound like they are playing while marching, and taking their collective breaths at the wrong moments. i can surmise either that they are youngsters, or veterans.
they're passing me now. i'm taking their photos out of my window, and they are most definitely old men. veterans of past wars; their battle-cries echoing in their hearts and memory, their remembrances and experiences still vibrant in their hearts.
as they march along, it is apparent that there are so few of them around. there are family members in tow and in total, perhaps around 45 people comprising their meager numbers. it's a soft flurry of red emblazoned band uniforms and green felt veteran caps, bracketed in at the head and tail by police escorts.
the company is lost now, walking blithely down a road which has no distinct endpoint. with their pride intact and their blaring reverie sounding true and out, they march along to an unknown end.
tonight's homework:
gather together with your friends and fellows, and create a marching parade of your own, internal or external.
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juin 05:
juin 06:
juin 07:
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