As she stumbles across the lumps of thirsty dying summer grass and dry cracking dirt,
There is no sign of grace in her hurried and careless steps;
She walks too fast, as if her legs are rebelling against every step
And if she doesn’t hurry they will turn her around and carry her back into the band hall.
By the looks of her, she’s a freshman tuba player
Who grew more in her body last summer than her mind could keep up with.
If it weren’t for the sabre looped though through her sachel and the rifle balanced in the crook of her elbow,
No one would guess she was on the colorguard.
And if it weren’t for the purple bandana drooping over her eyes and still damp with sweat,
No one would guess she was the “Captain” as the orange swooping letters on her bandana read.
And if brother wasn’t honking his car’s horn urging her to hurry up,
No one would have noticed her at all.