Trumpets.
Tubas.
Clarinets.
Drums.
Beating alongside the pace of racing hearts, settling in the deepest part of the stomach.
Strumming the nerves inside awakening souls.
A song recollecting the ear with reminiscence and memory.
Old and new, singing along merrily.
Red and black marination, a heavenly horizon.
Sea of gripped hands waving to the sound of delighted glory.
Louder, echoes ascend into uncontrollable roar.
Waves of visible red and black fabric, streaming with prestige letters and rippling hues.
A sea of energy, rising with anticipation at moment’s every capture.
Cool, autumn air.
Crisp leaves falling to the ragged hats of wrinkled faces.
Wind striking the curls of curious brown eyes.
Honeysuckle sunlight peaking beyond historic brick and grand oaks.
Highlighting strands of pom poms held by the braids of little believers.
A community of joy-filled commotion.
Crawling to the boarder, beyond the crowd, she reaches the wonderland rabbit hole.
A world of it’s own.
A divine dream.
A view no camera could gather.
A sound no recording could fathom.
A feeling no other could imagine from unreachable rows.
A creation of musical glory revealed from shining silver and golds.
A tunnel leading into the field of “welcome home”.
Past victories.
Marveled history.
Red coats buttoned to the necks of a prestige Arch.
Small, uniformed smiles, file along in cheerful purpose.
Happiness executed in a line of skipping snow.
High fives stretching to the bottom of the bank, grasping the hand of those who will never forget.
Striped skirts.
Tattooed faces.
Captured moments.
Red lips and golden curls dazzling to the ring of echoing trumpets.
Megaphone mountaintops, climbing above a backdrop of deepened grapefruits and lavender suns.
Leading a nation of the fighting faithful.
A battle carrying loyal hearts, towering above the surface.
Drum beaten chills.
Black linings, white writings, red glowings.
A bank of singing hearts and high fives.
Big and small.
Old and young.
A family rallying together in a fight.
Tears who have fallen.
Smiles surely widen.
Hands close together, with those who tunnel inside.
Still, she watches from below, a peak inside an Alice in Wonderland, rabbit hole.
Looking down at her hand, only to find a red pom pom string.
She would not forget, the smile that left behind inspiration of future dreams.
She would carry it with her.
She would not forget to smile; to reach down into the tiny rabbit-hole windows of dreamers.
She would not forget to touch their reaching hands, leaving behind strands of pom pom treasures that she once captured too.
Silver britches.
Green hedges.
A moment captured.
A dawg walk..
The walk of ages.
